text: Penelope for her Ulisses sake,
  Devizd a Web her wooers to deceave:
  In which the worke that she all day did make
  The same at night she did again unreave:
  Such subtile craft my Damzell doth conceave,
  Th importune suit of my desire to shnone:
  For all that I in many dayes doo weave,
  In one short houre I find by her undonne.
  So when I thinke to end that I begonne,
  I must begin and never bring to end:
  For with one looke she spils that long I sponne,
  And with one word my whole years work doth rend.
  Such labour like the Spyders web I fynd,
  Whose fruitless worke is broken with least wynd.