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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=498924" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Fly Caught In A Cobweb</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Small type of great ones, that do hum<br>Within this whole world's narrow room,<br>That with a busie hollow noise<br>Catch at the people's vainer voice,<br>And with spread sails play with their breath,<br>Whose very hails new christen death.<br>Poor Fly, caught in an airy net,<br>Thy wings have fetter'd now thy feet;<br>Where, like a Lyon in a toyl,<br>Howere thou keep'st a noble coyl,<br>And beat'st thy gen'rous breast, that o're<br>The plains thy fatal buzzes rore,<br>Till thy all-bellyd foe (round elf)<br>Hath quarter'd thee within himself.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Was it not better once to play<br>I' th' light of a majestick ray,<br>Where, though too neer and bold, the fire<br>Might sindge thy upper down attire,<br>And thou i' th' storm to loose an eye.<br>A wing, or a self-trapping thigh:<br>Yet hadst thou fal'n like him, whose coil<br>Made fishes in the sea to broyl,<br>When now th'ast scap'd the noble flame;<br>Trapp'd basely in a slimy frame,<br>And free of air, thou art become<br>Slave to the spawn of mud and lome?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Nor is't enough thy self do's dresse<br>To thy swoln lord a num'rous messe,<br>And by degrees thy thin veins bleed,<br>And piecemeal dost his poyson feed;<br>But now devour'd, art like to be<br>A net spun for thy familie,<br>And, straight expanded in the air,<br>Hang'st for thy issue too a snare.<br>Strange witty death and cruel ill<br>That, killing thee, thou thine dost kill!<br>Like pies, in whose entombed ark<br>All fowl crowd downward to a lark,<br>Thou art thine en'mies' sepulcher,<br>And in thee buriest, too, thine heir.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Yet Fates a glory have reserv'd<br>For one so highly hath deserv'd.<br>As the rhinoceros doth dy<br>Under his castle-enemy,<br>As through the cranes trunk throat doth speed,<br>The aspe doth on his feeder feed;<br>Fall yet triumphant in thy woe,<br>Bound with the entrails of thy foe.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Richard+Lovelace">Richard Lovelace</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=498924" data-title="A Fly Caught In A Cobweb de Richard Lovelace" data-description="Small type of great ones, that do hum
Within this whole world's narrow room,
That with a busie hollow noise
Catch at the people's vainer voice,
And with spread sails play with their breath,
Whose very hails new christen death.
Poor Fly, caught in ..."></div>
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