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.
John DrydenSo the false spider, when her nets are spread, deep ambushed in her silent den does lie.
John DrydenFortune, that with malicious joyDoes man her slave oppress,Proud of her office to destroy,Is seldom pleasd to bless.
John Dryden