 | Imaginary Sonnets |  |
48
LUTHER TO A BLUE-BOTTLE FLY.
(1540.)
Ay, buzz and buzz away. Dost thou suppose
I know not who thou art, who all to-day
Hast vexed and plagued me, as I write and pray,
And dared to settle on my very nose?
I know not who thou art, who all to-day
Hast vexed and plagued me, as I write and pray,
And dared to settle on my very nose?
Thou thinkest thou canst trip me while I doze?
Each time I snatch at thee thou slipp'st away;
But wait till my next sermon : I will lay
Thee in the dust, thou Father of all Foes.
Each time I snatch at thee thou slipp'st away;
But wait till my next sermon : I will lay
Thee in the dust, thou Father of all Foes.
Ay, buzz about my Bible. But I wot,
Unless thou wish to shrivel, thou'lt not dare
To settle on the page, thou live blue blot!
Unless thou wish to shrivel, thou'lt not dare
To settle on the page, thou live blue blot!
Out, Beelzebub, or thou wilt make me swear.
Buzz back to Hell: old Martin fears thee not,
Thou god of Flies, though thou shouldst fill the air!
Buzz back to Hell: old Martin fears thee not,
Thou god of Flies, though thou shouldst fill the air!
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