This is the pseudoscorpion's first foray into the literature. It's then very quiet until the 1780s, when George Adams* wrote of:

(The above is one of my mantras: I repeat it to myself on buses, on picnics). Pseudoscorpions then fall once more from common perception (hey! he reckons Aristotle's like, common!) and are now consigned to the specialist sector. I used to keep some, gleaned from the dunes in Norfolk; they loved Drosophila and were charming pets, but breeding was disastrous as baby scorpions less than a millimetre long are too small to keep track of, let alone feed.
I hadn't seen one for years until last summer, when a large fly landed on the trunk of the apple tree I was standing next to, and dangling from a rear leg was one of your men, clinging on with both claws and too busy to wave. By the time I'd got hold of a jar, it was gone.

* optician to George III, no less

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