On a Brede of divers Colours, woven by four Ladies.

TWice Twenty slender Virgin fingers twine
This curious Web, where all their fancies shine;
As Nature Them, so They this shade have wrought
Soft as their hands, and various as their thought.
Not Iuno's Bird, when his fair train dispread,
He wooes the Female to his painted bed;
No not the bow which so adorns the Skies,
So Glorious is, or boasts so many dies.