today's poem
In which Margaret Cavendish spends a lot of time in the stacks.
The Common Fate of Books
Margaret Cavendish, Duchess of Newcastle
The worst Fate Bookes have, when they are once read,
They're laid aside, forgotten like the Dead:
Under a heap of dust they buried lye,
Within a vault of some small Library.
But Spiders they, for honour of that Art
Of Spinning, which by Nature they were taught;
Since Men doe spin their Writings from the Braine,
Striving to make a lasting Web of Fame,
Of Cobwebs thin, high Altars doe they raise,
There offer Flyes, as sacrifice of praise.
The Common Fate of Books
Margaret Cavendish, Duchess of Newcastle
The worst Fate Bookes have, when they are once read,
They're laid aside, forgotten like the Dead:
Under a heap of dust they buried lye,
Within a vault of some small Library.
But Spiders they, for honour of that Art
Of Spinning, which by Nature they were taught;
Since Men doe spin their Writings from the Braine,
Striving to make a lasting Web of Fame,
Of Cobwebs thin, high Altars doe they raise,
There offer Flyes, as sacrifice of praise.