Wob's my name if you work it out; I'm a fair creature fashioned for battle When I bend and shoot my deadly shaft from my stomach, I desire only to send that poison as far away as possible. When my lord, who devised this torment for me, releases my limbs, I become longer and, bent upon slaughter, spit out that deadly poison I swallowed before. No man is easily parted from the object I describe; if he's struck by what flies from my stomach, he pays for its poison with his strength - speedy atonement for his life I'll serve no master when unstrung, only when I'm cunningly nocked. Now guess my name.	The dank earth, wondrously cold, First delivered me from her womb. I know in my mind I wasn't made From wool, skillfully fashioned with skeins. Neither warp nor weft wind about me, no thread thrums for me in the thrashing loom, nor does a shuttle rattle for me, nor does the weaver's rod bang and beat me. Silkworms didn't spin with their strange craft for me, Those strange creatures that embroider cloth of gold. Yet men will affirm all over this earth That I am an excellent garment. O wise man, weigh your words Well, and say what this object is.
I heard a noise like an invading army sweeping across the land, liquid-quick; conquering everything, quelling resistance. With it came darkness, dimming the light. Humans hid in their houses, while outside Uncountable soldiers smashed into the ground, but each brought forth life as he died; when the army had vanished, advancing northward, the land was green and growing, refreshed.	On earth there's a warrior of curious origin. He's created, gleaming, by two dumb creatures for the benefit of men. Foe bears him against foe to inflict harm. Women often keep him boxed up, strong as he is. If maidens and men care for him with due consideration and feed him frequently, he'll faithfully obey them and serve them well. Men succor him for the warmth he offers in return; but this warrior will savage anyone who permits him to become too proud.
A strange thing hangs by man's hip, hidden by a garment. It has a hole in its head. It is stiff and strong and its firm bearing reaps a reward. When the retainer hitches his clothing high above his knee, he wants the head of that hanging thing to find the old hole that it, outstretched, has often filled before.	I'm the world's wonder, for I make women happy goodness to the neighborhood, evil to no one, though I may perhaps prick the one who picks me. I stand up in a bed and have a roughish root. Sometimes a churl's daughter more daring than the rest lays hold of me, but she learns soon enough, the curly-haired creature that clamps me so, of my meeting with her: moist will be her eye!
I'm told a certain something grows in its pouch, swells and rises up, lifts its covering. A proud bride grasped that boneless wonder, worked it well and then this daughter covered that thing, no longer so swollen, with clothing.	A young man made for the corner where he knew she was standing; and under her girdle he thrust something stiff, worked his will; they both shook. This fellow quickened: one moment he was forceful, a first rate servant, so strenuous that the next he was quite blown by his exertion. Beneath the girdle a thing began to grow that upstanding men often think of tenderly.