43
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
Communicate
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.
Source:
The Poetical Works of Edward Taylor, Thomas H. Johnson, ed, Public Domain