Our souls sit close and silently within, And their own web from their own entrails spin; And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such, That, spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch.3
Thespis, the first professor of our art, At country wakes sung ballads from a cart.
Prologue to Lees Sophonisba.
Note 1. Our scanty mutton scrags on Fridays, and rather more savoury, but grudging, portions of the same flesh, rotten-roasted or rare, on the Tuesdays.Charles Lamb: Christs Hospital five-and-thirty Years Ago. [back]