LXXI.

I ioy to see how, in your drawen work, Your selfe unto the Bee ye doe compare, And me unto the Spyder, that doth lurke In close awayt, to catch her unaware. Right so your selfe were caught in cunning snare Of a deare foe, and thralled to his love; In whose streight bands ye now captived are So firmely, that ye never may remove. But as your worke is woven all about With woodbynd flowers and fragrant eglantine, So sweet your prison you in time shall prove, With many deare delights bedecked fyne: And all thensforth eternall peace shall see Betweene the Spyder and the gentle Bee.