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 finger 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 above what strenght hath got
lest in the brawl
thou fall

this fray seems thus to us:
hell’s spider gets
his entrail 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 thins.
damned sins