To the tired weaver, when his web is wrought,
What signifies the party last in power?
But here in Athens, 'twixt philosophers
Who reason on the nature of the soul;
And all the vain array of orators,
Who strove to hold the people in control.
Between the poets, artists, critics, all,
Who form a faction or who found a school,
We weave Penelope's web with hearts of gall,
And my poor brain is oft the weary tool.