The Flies

A poem by Matthew Prior

Say, sire of insects, mighty Sol,
(A fly upon the chariot-pole
Cries out) What blue-bottle alive
Did ever with such fury drive?
Tell Beelzebub, great Father, tell,
(Says th' other perch'd upon the wheel)
Did ever any mortal fly
Raise such a cloud of dust as I?
My judgement turn'd the whole debate;
My valour sayed the sinking state.
To talk two idle buzzing things,
Toss up their heads, and stretch their wings.
But let the truth to light be brought,
This neither spoke nor th' other fought;
No merit in their own behaviour;
Both raised but by their party's favour.

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