Much like a subtle spider which doth sit In middle of her web, which spreadeth wide; If aught do touch the utmost thread of it, She feels it instantly on every side.1
ATTRIBUTION:
The Immortality of the Soul.
Note 1. Our souls sit close and silently within, And their own webs from their own entrails spin; And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such That, spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch. John Dryden: Mariage à la Mode, act ii. sc. 1.
The spiders touchhow exquisitely fine! Feels at each thread, and lives along the line. Alexander Pope: Epistle i. line 217. [back]