Edward Taylor(ea, 1642–1729)
Upon a Spider Catching a Fly
T h o u sorrow, v e n o m elf:
Is this thy ploy,
To spin a w e b out of thyself
To c a t c h a fly
For why
I saw a pettish 0 wasppeevish, petulant
Fall foul therein,
Whom yet thy whorl-pins 5 did not clasp
L e s t he s h o u l d fling
His sting.
B u t as afraid, r e m o t e
D i d s t s t a n d hereat
A n d with thy little fingers stroke
A n d gently tap
His back.
Thus gently him didst treat
Lest he should pet, 0take offense
And in a froppish, waspish heatfretful
Should greatly fret
Thy net.
Whereas the silly fly,
Caught by its leg
Thou by the throat tookst hastily
And hind 0 the headbehind
Bite dead.
This goes to pot, that not[;]6
Nature doth call.
Strive not above what strength hath got
Lest in the brawl
Thou fall.
This fray seems thus to us.
Hell's spider gets
His entrails spun to whip-cords7 thus,
And wove to nets
And sets.
To tangle Adam's race
In's strategemsin his
To their destructions, spoiled, made base
By venom things,
Damned sins.
But mighty, gracious Lord
Communicate
Thy grace to break the cord, afford
Us glory's gate
And state.
We'll nightingale sing like
When perched on high
In glory's cage, thy glory, bright,
And thankfully,
For joy.
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