Till it fell still lower, and there it lay, a little dizzy, and faint.
Its head grew steady—again it went, and travelled a half yard higher,
’Twas a delicate thread it had to tread, and a road where its feet would tire.
Again it fell and swung below, but again it quickly mounted,
Till up and down, now fast, now slow, nine brave attempts were counted.
“Sure,” cried the king, “that foolish thing will strive no more to climb,
When it toils so hard to reach and cling, and tumbles every time.”
But up the insect went once more, ah me, ’tis an anxious minute;
He’s only a foot from his cobweb door, oh, say will he lose or win it?
Steadily, steadily, inch by inch, higher and higher he got,