Amoretti XXIII by Edmund Spenser

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Penelope for her Ulysses’ sake,
Devised a web her wooers to deceive;
In which the work that she all day did make
The same at night she did again unreave.
Such subtle craft my Damsel doth conceive,
Th’importune suit of my desire to shun:
For all that I in many days do weave,
In one short hour I find by her undone.
So when I think to end that I begun,
I must begin and never bring to end:
For with one look she spills that long I spun,
And with one word my whole year’s work doth rend.
Such labour like the spider’s web I find,
Whose fruitless work is broken with least wind.

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