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.

John Dryden (1631-1701): Mariage à la Mode. Act ii. Sc. 1.

Much like a subtle spider which doth sit

In middle of her web, which spreadeth wide;

If aught do touch the utmost thread of it,

She feels it instantly on every side.

Sir John Davies (1570-1626): The Immortality of the Soul.

Like the stain'd web that whitens in the sun,

Grow pure by being purely shone upon.

Thomas Moore (1779-1852): Lalla Rookh. The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan.

Oh what a tangled web we weave,

When first we practise to deceive!

Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832): Marmion. Canto vi. Stanza 17.

Like the stain'd web that whitens in the sun,

Grow pure by being purely shone upon.

Thomas Moore (1779-1852): Lalla Rookh. The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan.