122. THE SINNER AND THE SPIDER

Sinner.

WHAT black, what ugly crawling thing art thou? Spider.

I am a spider—

Sinner.

A spider, ay, also a filthy creature.

Spider.

Not filthy as thyself in name or feature. My name entailed is to my creation,

My features from the God of thy salvation. Sinner.

I am a man, and in God's image made,

I have a soul shall neither die nor fade, God has possessed me with human reason,

Speak not against me lest thou speakest treason. For if I am the image of my Maker,

Of slanders laid on me He is partaker.

Spider.

I know thou art a creature far above me,

Therefore I shun, I fear, and also love thee. God of a little flour, or to rely for forgiveness of sin on a wafer, a bit of bread, or a little wine or water. How degraded is he that pretends to believe such palpable absurdities.—(ED.) ⁴ This is one of Buryan's keen, shrewd, home throats. Clothes professedly made to hide what they studiously display!—(ED.) ⁵ Possessed me with, or has given me possession of.—(ED.) But though thy God hath made thee such a creature, Thou hast against him often played the traitor. Thy sin has fetched thee down: leave off to boast; Nature thou hast defiled, God's image lost. Yes, thou thyself a very beast hast made, And art become like grass, which soon doth fade. Thy soul, thy reason, yea, thy spotless state, Sin has subjected to th' most dreadful fate. But I retain my primitive condition,

I've all but what I lost by thy ambition. Sinner.

Thou venomed thing, I know not what to call thee, The dregs of nature surely did befall thee, Thou wast made of the dross and scum of all, Man hates thee; doth, in scorn, thee spider call. Spider.

My venom's good for something, 'cause God made it, Thy sin hath spoiled thy nature, doth degrade it. Of human virtues, therefore, though I fear thee. I will not, though I might, despise and jeer thee. Thou say'st I am the very dregs of nature, Thy sin's the spawn of devils, 'tis no creature. Thou say'st man hates me 'cause I am a spider, Poor man, thou at thy God art a derider;

My venom tendeth to my preservation,

Thy pleasing follies work out thy damnation. Poor man, I keep the rules of my creation, Thy sin has cast thee headlong from thy station. I hurt nobody willingly, but thou

Art a self-murderer; thou know'st not how To do what good is; no, thou lovest evil; Thou flest God's law, adherest to the devil. Sinner.

Ill-shaped creature, there's antipathy

'Twixt man and spiders, 'tis in vain to lie; I hate thee, stand off, if thou dost come nigh me, I'll crush thee with my foot; I do defy thee. Spider.

They are ill-shaped, who warped are by sin, Antipathy in thee hath long time been

To God; no marvel, then, if me, his creature, Thou dost defy, pretending name and feature. But why stand off? My presence shall not throng thee, 'Tis not my venom, but thy sin doth wrong thee. Come, I will teach thee wisdom, do but hear me, I was made for thy profit, do not fear me. ¹ Man's sinfulness, by nature and practice, justly, but awfully described.—Mason. But if thy God thou wilt not hearken to,

What can the swallow, ant, or spider do?

Yet I will speak, I can but be rejected,

Sometimes great things by small means are effected. Hark, then, though man is noble by creation, He's lapsed now to such degeneration,

Is so besotted and so careless grown,

As not to grieve though he has overthrown Himself, and brought to bondage everything Created, from the spider to the king.

This we poor sensitives do feel as I see; For subject to the curse you made us be.

Tread not upon me, neither from me go;

'Tis man which has brought all the world to woe, The law of my creation bids me teach thee; I will not for thy pride to God impeach thee. I spin, I weave, and all to let thee see, Thy best performances but cobwebs be.

Thy glory now is brought to such an ebb,

It doth not much excel the spider's web;

My webs becoming snares and traps for flies, Do set the wiles of hell before thine eyes; Their tangling nature is to let thee see, Thy sins too of a tangling nature be.

My den, or hole, for that 'tis bottomless, Doth of damnation show the lastingness.

My lying quiet until the fly is catch'd,

Shows secretly hell hath thy ruin hate'd

In that I on her seize, when she is taken, I show who gathers whom God hath forsaken. The fly lies buzzing in my web to tell

Thce how the sinners roar and howl in hell. Now, since I show thee all these mysteries, How canst thou hate me, or me scandalize? Sinner.

Well, well; I no more will be a derider,

I did not look for such things from a spider. Spider.

Come, hold thy peace; what I have yet to say, If heeded, help thee may another day.

Since I an ugly ven'mous creature be,

There is some semblance 'twixt vile man and me. My wild and herdless runnings are like those Whose ways to ruin do their souls expose. Daylight is not my time, I work in th' night, To show they are like me who hate the light. The maid sweeps one web down, I make another, To show how herdless ones convictions smother; My web is no defence at all to me,

Nor will false hopes at judgment be to thee. Sinner.

O spider, I have heard thee, and do wonder A spider should thus lighten and thus thunder! Spider.

Do but hold still, and I will let thee see Yet in my ways more mysteries there be.

Shall not I do thee good, if I thee tell, I show to thee a four-fold way to hell;

For, since I set my web in sundry places, I show men go to hell in divers traces.

One I set in the window, that I might

Show some go down to hell with gospel light. One I set in a corner, as you see,

To show how some in secret snared be.

Gross webs great store I set in darksome places, To show how many sin with brazen faces;

Another web I set aloft on high,

To show there's some professing men must die. Thus in my ways God wisdom doth conceal,

And by my ways that wisdom doth reveal.

I hide myself when I for flies do wait,

So doth the devil when he lays his hat;

If I do fear the losing of my prey,

I stir me, and more snares upon her lay:

This way and that her wings and legs I tie, That, sure as she is catch'd, so she must die. But if I see she's like to get away,

Then with my venom I her journey stay.

All which my ways the devil imitates

To catch men, 'cause he their salvation hates. Sinner.

O spider, thou delight'st me with thy skill! I pr'ythes spit this venom at me still.

Spider.

I am a spider, yet I can possess

The palace of a king, where happiness

So much abounds Nor when I do go thither, Do they ask what, or whence I come, or whither I make my hasty travels; no, not they;

They let me pass, and I go on my way.

I seize the palace; do with hands take hold Of doors, of locks, or bolts; yea, I am bold, When in, to clamber up unto the throne,

And to possess it, as if 'twere mine own

Nor is there any law forbidding me

Here to abide, or in this palace be.

Yea, if I please, I do the highest stories Ascend, there sit, and so behold the glories Myself is compassed with, as if I were

One of the chiefest courtiers that be there. Here lords and ladies do come round about me, With grave demeanour, nor do any flout me For this, my brave adventure, no, not they; They come, they go, but leave me there to stay. ¹ See Pr. xix. 20, and Pilgrim's Progress, p. 153. There is also a very striking allusion to the subject of this emblem, to Bunyan's Light in Darkness, vol. i., p. 475. Now, my reproacher, I do by all this

Show how thou may'st possess thyself of bliss: Thou art worse than a spider, but take hold On Christ the door, thou shalt not be controll'd. By him do thou the heavenly palace enter; None chide thee will for this thy brave adventure; Approach thou then unto the very throne,

There speak thy mind, fear not, the day's thine own; Nor saint, nor angel, will thee stop or stay, But rather tumble blocks out of the way.

My venom stops not me; let not thy vice

Stop thee; possess thyself of paradise.

Go on, I say, although thou be a sinner,

Learn to be bold in faith, of me a spinner. This is the way the glories to possess,

And to enjoy what no man can express.

Sometimes I find the palace door uplock'd, And so my entrance thither has upblock'd. But am I daunted? No, I here and there

Do feel and search; so if I anywhere,

At any chink or crevice, find my way,

I crowd, I press for passage, make no stay. And so through difficulty I attain

The palace; yea, the throne where princes reign. I crowd sometimes, as if I'd burst in sunder; And art thou crushed with striving, do not wonder. Some scarce get in, and yet indeed they enter; Knock, for they nothing have, that nothing venture. Nor will the King himself throw dirt on thee, As thou hast cast reproaches upon me.

He will not hate thee, O thou foul backslider! As thou didst me, because I am a spider.

Now, to conclude: since I such doctrine bring, Slight me no more, call me not ugly thing. God wisdom hath unto the piss-ant given,

And spiders may teach men the way to heaven. Sinner.

Well, my good spider, I my errors see,

I was a fool for railing upon thee.

Thy nature, venom, and thy fearful hue,

Roth show what sinners are, and what they do. Thy way and works do also darkly tell,

How some men go to heaven, and some to hell. Thou art my monitor, I am a fool;

They learn may, that to spiders go to school. XIX.

MEDITATIONS UPON THE DAY BEFORE THE SOM-

RISING.

But all this while, where's he whose golden rays Drives night away and beautifies our days? Where's he whose goodly face doth warm and heal, And show us what the darksome nights conceal? Where's he that thaws our ice, drives cold away? Let's have him, or we care not for the day. Thus 'tis with who partakers are of grace, There's nought to them like their Redeemer's face. XX.

OF THE MOLE IN THE GROUND.

THE mole's a creature very smooth and slick, She digs i' th' dirt, but 'twill not on her stick; So's he who counts this world his greatest gains, Yet nothing gets but's labour for his pains. Earth's the mole's element, she can't abide To be above ground, dirt heaps are her pride; And he is like her who the worldling plays, He imitates her in her work and ways.

Poor silly mole, that thou should'st love to be Where thou nor sun, nor moon, nor stars can see. But O! how silly's he who doth not care

So he gets earth, to have of heaven a share! XXI.

OF THE CUCKOO.

THOU booby, say'st thou nothing but Cuckoo* The robin and the wren can thee outdo.

They to us play thorough their little throats, Taking not one, but sundry pretty taking notes. But thou hast fellows, some like thee can do Little but suck our eggs, and sing Cuckoo. Thy notes do not first welcome in our spring, Nor dost thou its first tokens to us bring. Birds less than thee by far, like prophets, do Tell us, 'tis coming, though not by Cuckoo. Nor dost thou summer have away with thee, Though thou a yawling bawling Cuckoo be.

When thou dost cease among us to appear,

Then doth our harvest bravely crown our year. But thou hast fellows, some like thee can do Little but suck our eggs, and sing Cuckoo. Since Cuckoos forward not our early spring, Nor help with notes to bring our harvest in; And since, while here, she only makes a noise, So pleasing unto none as girls and boys,

The Formalist we may compare her to,

For he doth suck our eggs, and sing Cuckoo. XXII.

OF THE BOY AND BUTTERFLY.

BEHOLD how eager this our little boy

Is for this Butterfly, as if all joy,

All profits, bonours, yea, and lasting pleasures, Were wrapt up in her, or the richest treasures, Found in her, would be bundled up together, When all her all is lighter than a feather. He halloos, runs, and cries out, Here, boys, here, Nor doth he brambles or the nettles fear. He stumbles at the mole-hills, up he gets, And runs again, as one bereft of wits;

And all this labour and this large outcry, Is only for a silly butterfly.

Comparison.

This little boy an emblem is of those

Whose hearts are wholly at the world's dispose, The butterfly doth represent to me,

The world's best things at best but fading be. All are but painted nothings and false joys, Like this poor butterfly to these our boys. His running thorough nettles, thorns, and briars, To gratify his boyish fond desires;

His tumbling over mole-hills to attain

His end, namely, his butterfly to gain;

Doth plainly show what hazards some men run, To get what will be lost as soon as won.

Men seem in choice, than children far more wise, Because they run not after butterflies;

When yet, alas! for what are empty toys,

They follow children, like to beardless boys! XXIII.