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
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]