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 hasp,
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, aspish 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 destruction, 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:
Yea, thankfully,
For joy.

__________________
Andrew