Sweet mother, I cannot weave – slender Aphrodite has stolen my loom and says that I cannot have it back until I author several thousand lines of lyric poetry
Sweet mother, I cannot weave – I don't actually know how. I never learned, I suppose, as odd as it may seem for me to say this as a fin de l'âge du fer woman from an Aeolian cultural context, or indeed from any of the Mediterranean cultures of this period. I assume I was out sick that day.