The Works of John Bunyan, vol 3 by John Bunyan (summer books .TXT) 📕

So doth the devil when he lays his bait; 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’ythee 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,[31] 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.

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,

Both show that 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 SUN-

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 through 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, honours, 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 through 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.[32]

XXIII.

OF THE FLY AT THE CANDLE.

What ails this fly thus desperately to enter A combat with the candle? Will she venture To clash at light? Away, thou silly fly; Thus doing thou wilt burn thy wings and die.

But ‘tis a folly her advice to give,

She’ll kill the candle, or she will not live.

Slap, says she, at it; then she makes retreat, So wheels about, and doth her blows repeat.

Nor doth the candle let her quite escape, But gives some little check unto the ape: Throws up her heels it doth, so down she falls, Where she lies sprawling, and for succour calls.

When she recovers, up she gets again,

And at the candle comes with might and main, But now behold, the candle takes the fly, And holds her, till she doth by burning die.

Comparison.

This candle is an emblem of that light

Our gospel gives in this our darksome night.

The fly a lively picture is of those

That hate and do this gospel light oppose.

At last the gospel doth become their snare, Doth them with burning hands in pieces tear.[33]

XXIV.

ON THE RISING OF THE SUN.

Look, look, brave Sol doth peep up from beneath, Shows us his golden face, doth on us breathe; He also doth compass us round with glories, Whilst he ascends up to his highest stories.

Where he his banner over us displays,

And gives us light to see our works and ways.

Nor are we now, as at the peep of light, To question, is it day, or is it night?

The night is gone, the shadows fled away, And we now most sure are that it is day.

Our eyes behold it, and our hearts believe it; Nor can the wit of man in this deceive it.

And thus it is when Jesus shows his face, And doth assure us of his love and grace.

XXV.

UPON THE PROMISING FRUITFULNESS OF A TREE.

A comely sight indeed it is to see

A world of blossoms on an apple-tree:

Yet far more comely would this tree appear, If all its dainty blooms young apples were.

But how much more might one upon it see, If all would hang there till they ripe should be.

But most of all in beauty ‘twould abound, If then none worm-eaten should there be found.

But we, alas! do commonly behold

Blooms fall apace, if mornings be but cold.

They too, which hang till they young apples are, By blasting winds and vermin take despair, Store that do hang, while almost ripe, we see By blust’ring winds are shaken from the tree, So that of many, only some there be,

That grow till they come to maturity.

Comparison.

This tree a perfect emblem is of those

Which God doth plant, which in his garden grows, Its blasted blooms are motions unto good, Which chill affections do nip in the bud.

Those little apples which yet blasted are, Show some good purposes, no good fruits bear.

Those spoiled by vermin are to let us see, How good attempts by bad thoughts ruin’d be.

Those which the wind blows down, while they are green, Show good works have by trials spoiled been.

Those that abide, while ripe upon the tree, Show, in a good man, some ripe fruit will be.

Behold then how abortive some fruits are, Which at the first most promising appear.

The frost, the wind, the worm, with time doth show, There flows, from much appearance, works but few.

XXVI.

UPON THE THIEF.

The thief, when he doth steal, thinks he doth gain; Yet then the greatest loss he doth sustain.

Come, thief, tell me thy gains, but do not falter.

When summ’d, what comes it to more than the halter?

Perhaps, thou’lt say, The halter I defy; So thou may’st say, yet by the halter die.

Thou’lt say, Then there’s an end; no, pr’ythee, hold, He was no friend of thine that thee so told.

Hear thou the Word of God, that will thee tell, Without repentance thieves must go to hell.

But should it be as thy false prophet says, Yet nought but loss doth come by thievish ways.

All honest men will flee thy company,

Thou liv’st a rogue, and so a rogue will die.

Innocent boldness thou hast none at all, Thy inward thoughts do thee a villain call.

Sometimes when thou liest warmly on thy bed, Thou art like one unto the gallows led.

Fear, as a constable, breaks in upon thee, Thou art