Answer:
In all the world, none can compare, to this tiny weaver, his deadly cloth so silky and fair.
What is that which, while it lives, constantly changes its habit, that is buried before it is dead, and whose tomb is valued wherever it is found?
I am a tiny insect that gives you sweet food. I live in a hive and have a painful sting. What am I?
What kind of dog chases anything red?
What has a coat? Hugs you not in sympathy? Whose smile you'd rather not see? Whose stance is a terrible thing to see? Who is it that brave men run away from? Whose fingers are clawed? Whose sleep lasts for months? And who's company we shunt?
A man goes out in heavy rain with nothing to protect him from it. His hair doesn't get wet. How does he do that?