On a SPIDER

Artist, who underneath my table Thy curious texture hast display'd; Who, if we may believe the fable, Wert once a fair ingenious maid:

Insidious, restless, watchful spider, Fear no officious damsel's broom, Extend thy artful fabric wider, And spread thy banners round my room.

Swept from the rich man's costly ceiling, Thou'rt welcome to my homely roof; Here may'st thou find a peaceful dwelling, And undisturb'd attend thy woof.

Whilst I thy wond'rous fabric stare at, And think on hapless poet's fate; Like thee confin'd to lonely garret, And rudely banish'd rooms of state.

And as from out thy tortur'd body Thou draw'st thy slender string with pain, So does he labour, like a noddy, To spin materials from his brain.

He for some fluttering tawdry creature, That spreads her charms before his eye; And that's a conquest little better Than thine o'er captive butterfly.

Thus far 'tis plain we both agree, Perhaps our deaths may better shew it; 'Tis ten to one but penury Ends both the spider and the poet.