r-spinners
Who toil their brains out for their dinners,
Though base, too long unsung has lain
By kindred brethren of Duck Lane,
Unknowing that its little plan
Holds all the cyclopedia of man.

"This one, whose radiant thread
Is every where from centre spread,
Like orbs in planetary skies,
Enclosed with rounds of various size,
This curious frame I aptly call
A cobweb mathematical.

"In secret holes, that dirty line,
Where never sun presumes to shine,
With straws, and filth, and time beset,
Where all is fish that comes to net,
That musty film, the Muse supposes
Figures the web of Virtuosos.

"You, where the gaudy insect sings,
Are cobwebs of the court of kings,
Where gilded threads conceal the gin.
And broider'd knaves are caught therein.

"That holly, fix'd 'mid mildew'd panes,
Of cheerless Christmas the remains
(I only dream and sing its cheer,
My Muse keeps Lent throughout the year)
That holly, labor'd o'er and o'er,
Is cobwebs of the lawyer's lore,
Where frisky flies, on gambols borne,
Find out the snare, when lost, undone.

"These dangling webs, with dirt and age,
Display their tatter'd equipage,
So like the antiquarian crew,
That those in every thread I view.

"Here death disseminated lies,
In shrunk anatomies of flies;
And amputated limbs declare
What vermin lie in ambush there:
A baited lure with drugg'd perdition,
A cobweb, not misnamed physician.

"Those plaited webs, long pendent there,
Of sable bards a subtle snare,
Of all-collective disposition,
Which holds like gout of inquisition,
May well denominated be,
The trap-webs of divinity."

But whilst our bard described the scene,
A bee stole through a broken pane;
Fraught with the sweets of every flower,
In taking his adventurous tour,
Is there entrapp'd. Exert thy sting,
Bold bee, and liberate thy wing!
The poet kindly dropp'd his pen,
And freed the captive from its den;
Then musing o'er his empty table,
Forgot the moral of his fable.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

THE EPICURE AND THE PHYSICIAN.

Two hundred years ago, or more,
An heir possess'd a miser's store;
Rejoiced to find his father dead,
Till then on thrifty viands fed;
Unnumber'd dishes crown'd his board,
With each unwholesome trifle stored.
He ate--and long'd to eat again,
But sigh'd for appetite in vain:
His food, though dress'd a thousand ways,
Had lost its late accustom'd praise;
He relish'd nothing--sickly grew--
Yet long'd to taste of somethin