Upon a Spider Catching a Fly
by Edward Taylor

Thou sorrow, venom elf.
   Is this thy play,
To spin a web out of thyself
   To catch a fly?
      For why?

I saw a pettish wasp
   Fall foul therein,
Whom yet thy whorl pins did not clasp
   Lest he should fling
     His sting.

But as afraid, remote
   Didst stand hereat
And with thy little fingers stroke
   And gently tap
     His back.

Thus gently him didst treat
   Lest he should pet,
And in a froppish waspish heat
   Should greatly fret
      Thy net.

Whereas the silly fly,
   Caught by its leg,
Thou by the throat took'st hastily
   And 'hind the head
      Bite dead.

This goes to pot, that not
   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 whipcords' thus,
   And wove to nets
      And sets,

To tangle Adam's race
   In's stratagems
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.