Brede

[…] while now the bright-hair'd Sun / Sits in yon western Tent, whose cloudy Skirts, / With Brede ethereal wove

The colours all inflam’d throughout her train, / She writh’d about, convuls’d with scarlet pain: / A deep volcanian yellow took the place / Of all her milder-mooned body’s grace; / And, as the lava ravishes the mead, / Spoilt all her silver mail, and golden brede; […]

So those two foes above my fallen life, / With brow to brow like night and evening mixt / Their dark and gray, while Psyche ever stole / A little nearer, till the babe that by us, / Half-lapt in glowing gauze and golden brede, / Lay like a new-fall’n meteor on the grass, […]