Sonnet XXVI. The silly bird that hastes unto the net

Bartholomew Griffin (d. 1602)

THE SILLY bird that hastes unto the net,

And flutters to and fro till she be taken,

Doth look some food or succour there to get,

But loseth life: so much is she mistaken!

The foolish fly that fleeth to the flame

With ceaseless hovering, and with restless flight,

Is burnèd straight to ashes in the same,

And finds her death, where was her most delight.

The proud aspiring boy, that needs would pry

Into the secrets of the highest seat,

Had some conceit to gain content thereby,

Or else his folly, sure, was wondrous great.

These did through folly perish all and die:

And, though I know it! even so do I!