52 Upon a Spider Catching A Fly

Edward Taylor

Thou sorrow, venom Elfe:

Is this they play,

To spin a web out of theselfe

To Catch a Fly?

For Why?

I saw a pettish wasp

Fall foule therein:

Whom yet they whorle pins did not[t hasp]

Lest he should fling

His sting.

But as afraid, remote

Didst stand hereat,

And with they little fingers stroke

And gently tap

His back.


Thus gently him didst treate

Lest he should pet,

And in a frappish, waspish heate

Should greatly fret

Thy net.


Whereas the silly Fly,

Caught by its leg,

Though by the throate took’st hastily,

And ‘hinde the head

Bite Dead.


This goes to pit that not

Nature doth call.

Strive not above what strength hat got,

Lest in the brawle

Thou fall.


This Frey seems thus to us.

Hells Spider gets

His intrails spun to whip Cords thus

And wove to nets

And sets.


To tangle Adams race

In’s stratigems

To their Destructions, spoil’d, made base

By venom things

Damn’d Sins.


But mighty, Gracious Lord


Thy Grace to breake the Cord, afford

Us Glory’s Gate

And State.


We’l Nightingaile sing like

When pearcht on high

In Glories Cage, thy glory, bright,

And thankfully,

For joy.



The Poetical Works of Edward Taylor, Thomas H. Johnson, ed, Public Domain


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