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.[274:3]

Mariage à la Mode. Act ii. Sc. 1.

Thespis, the first professor of our art,

At country wakes sung ballads from a cart.

Prologue to Lee's Sophonisba.

[[275]]

Errors, like straws, upon the surface flow;