The Spider and the Poet

I saw this web once and thought of a poem I once read.


The Spider

Artist, that underneath my table
Thy curious feature hast displayed,
Who, if we may believe the fable,
Wast once a lovely, blooming maid;

Insidious, restless, watchful spider,
Fear no offcious damsel's broom;
Extend thine artful structure wider,
And spread thy banners round my room.

Wiped from the great man's costly ceiling,
Thou'rt welcome to my dusty roof;
There thou shall find a peaceful dwelling,
And undisturbed attend the woof,

Whilst I the wond'rous fabric stare at,
And think on hapless poet's fate,
Like thee confined to lonely garret,
And rudely banished rooms of state.

And as from out thy tortured body
Thou draw'st the slender strings with pain,
So does the labour like a noddy
To spin materials from his brain;

He, for some flutt'ring, tawdry creature
That made a fluster in his eye,
And that's a conquest little better
Than thine o'er captive butterfly.

Thus far 'tis plain you both agree,
Your deaths perhaps may better show it;
'Tis ten to one but penury
Ends both the spider and the poet.

Edward Littleton