Flies

With all the flies in our area this autumn, and David swatting them left and right, I can't stop thinking about poetry involving flies!

SHAKESPEARE:

As flies to wanton boys are we to th' gods,
They kill us for their sport.

King Lear Act 4, scene 1

WILLIAM BLAKE:

Little Fly,
Thy summer's play
My thoughtless hand
Has brush'd away.

Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?

For I dance
And drink & sing:
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life
And strength & breath
And the want
Of thought is death;

Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.

from Songs of Experience 1794