The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] ... With a Copious Index. To which is prefixed Some Account of his Life. In Four Volumes |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
THE YOUNG FLY, AND THE OLD SPIDER.
FRESH was the breath of morn—the busy breeze,
As poets tell us, whisper'd through the trees,
And swept the dew-clad blooms with wing so light,
Phœbus got up, and made a blazing fire,
That gilded every country house and spire,
And smiling, put on his best looks so bright.
As poets tell us, whisper'd through the trees,
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Phœbus got up, and made a blazing fire,
That gilded every country house and spire,
And smiling, put on his best looks so bright.
On this fair morn, a spider who had set,
To catch a breakfast, his old waving net,
With curious art upon a spangled thorn;
At length, with gravely-squinting longing eye,
Near him espied a pretty plump young fly,
Humming her little orisons to morn.
To catch a breakfast, his old waving net,
With curious art upon a spangled thorn;
At length, with gravely-squinting longing eye,
Near him espied a pretty plump young fly,
Humming her little orisons to morn.
‘Good morrow, dear Miss Fly,’ quoth gallant Grim—
‘Good morrow, sir,’ reply'd Miss Fly to him—
‘Walk in, Miss, pray, and see what I'm about:’
‘I'm much oblig'd t'ye, sir,’ Miss Fly rejoin'd,
‘My eyes are both so very good, I find,
That I can plainly see the whole, without.’
‘Good morrow, sir,’ reply'd Miss Fly to him—
‘Walk in, Miss, pray, and see what I'm about:’
‘I'm much oblig'd t'ye, sir,’ Miss Fly rejoin'd,
‘My eyes are both so very good, I find,
That I can plainly see the whole, without.’
‘Fine weather, Miss’—‘Yes, very very fine,’
Quoth Miss—‘prodigious fine indeed:’
‘But why so coy?’ quoth Grim, ‘that you decline
To put within my bow'r your pretty head?’
Quoth Miss—‘prodigious fine indeed:’
‘But why so coy?’ quoth Grim, ‘that you decline
To put within my bow'r your pretty head?’
‘'Tis simply this,’
Quoth cautious Miss,
‘I fear you'd like my pretty head so well,
You'd keep it for yourself, sir—who can tell?’
Quoth cautious Miss,
‘I fear you'd like my pretty head so well,
You'd keep it for yourself, sir—who can tell?’
‘Then let me squeeze your lovely hand, my dear,
And prove that all your dread is foolish, vain.’—
‘I've a sore finger, sir; nay more, I fear
You really would not let it go again.’
And prove that all your dread is foolish, vain.’—
‘I've a sore finger, sir; nay more, I fear
You really would not let it go again.’
‘Poh, poh, child, pray dismiss your idle dread;
I would not hurt a hair of that sweet head—
Well, then, with one kind kiss of friendship meet me:’
‘La, sir,’ quoth Miss, with seeming artless tongue,
‘I fear our salutation would be long;
So loving, too, I fear that you would eat me.’
So saying, with a smile she left the rogue,
To weave more lines of death, and plan for prog.
I would not hurt a hair of that sweet head—
Well, then, with one kind kiss of friendship meet me:’
‘La, sir,’ quoth Miss, with seeming artless tongue,
‘I fear our salutation would be long;
So loving, too, I fear that you would eat me.’
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To weave more lines of death, and plan for prog.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |