SPIDERS. 



2il 



Sad victim of tiiy guile ; nor aught avail 

 His silken wings, nor coat of glossy mail, 

 Nor varying hues of azure, jet, or gold : 



Yet though thus ill the fluttering captive fares, 

 Whom, heedless of the fraud, thy toils trepan ; 

 Thy tyrant-fang, that slays the stranger, spares 



The bloody brothers of thy cruel clan ; 



While man against his fellows spreads his snares, 

 Then most delighted, when his prey is man. 



Russell. 



Lines on the Spider^ by Mr. Dryden. 



The treach'rous Spider when her nets are spread, 

 Deep ambush'd in her silent den does he. 

 And feels, far off, the trembling of her thread. 

 Whose filmy cord should bind the struggling fly: 

 Then, if at last she finds him fast beset. 

 She issues forth and runs along her loom : 

 She joys to touch the captive in her net. 

 And drags the little wretch in triumph home. 



On a Spider. 



Artist, who underneath my table 



Thy curious texture has display'd ! 



Who, if we may believe the fable , 



Wert once a lovely blooming maid ! 



