And long it was since any reader’s hand
Had reached them from their unfrequented seat.
For a deep dust (which time does softly shed,
Where only time does come) their covers bear;
On which grave spiders streets of webs had spread,
Subtle, and slight, as the grave writers were.
In these heaven’s holy fire does vainly burn,
Nor warms, nor lights, but is in sparkles spent;
Where froward authors with disputes have torn
The garment seamless as the firmament.