He had brushed his clothes and spun¹ a couple of fine threads to show what he could do. He bent² and stretched his legs for her to see that he was well-shaped. Seven of his eyes beamed with love, while the eighth took care that she didn’t eat him:

 

“Allow me, miss, to offer you my hand and heart,” said he.

 

“He’s a fair-spoken man,” said the parsley.

 

“A charming man,” said the goat’s-foot.

 

“It was I that sent him here,” said the mouse.

“Idiot!” said the damsel.

 

But the spider did not throw up the game so easily. He gracefully³ bowed his thorax, set two of his eyes to watch that nothing happened to him and looked doubly enamoured with the other six:

 

“Do not think that I mean to be a burden to you,” he said. “I have my own web a little way down the hedge and I can easily catch the few flies I require. I have even got five real fat ones hanging and spun up, which I shall esteem⁴ it an honour to offer you to-morrow, so that you may see that it is love alone that urges me to propose to you.”

 

“Is that you talking your nonsense?” said the damsel. “What the blazes should I do with such a silly man?”

“Dear me!” he said—and now there was only one eye in love, so fierce was her air—“If my courtship seems inopportune to you, I will retire at once and wait till another time....”

 

“I rather think that’s the wisest thing you could do,” said she. “Clear out, this minute, or I’ll....”

 

He slid down a thread in no time and she after him. But he escaped and, a little later, she was sitting in her web again, looking sourer than ever.

 

“What a woman!” said the mouse.

 

“Yes, just so!” said the spider.

 

“It doesn’t do to take the first that comes,” said the parsley.

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