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;