Songes and Sonettes | ||
That eche thing is hurt of it selfe.
Why
fearest thou thy outward foe,
When thou thy selfe thy harme doste fede,
Of griefe, or hurt, of paine, of wo,
Within eche thing is sowen the sede.
When thou thy selfe thy harme doste fede,
Of griefe, or hurt, of paine, of wo,
Within eche thing is sowen the sede.
So fine was neuer yet the cloth,
No smith so harde his yron did beate:
But thone consumed was with mothe,
Thother with canker all to fret.
No smith so harde his yron did beate:
But thone consumed was with mothe,
Thother with canker all to fret.
The knotty oke and weinscot old,
Within dothe eat the silly worme:
Euen so a minde in enuy rold,
Alwayes within it self doth burne.
Within dothe eat the silly worme:
Euen so a minde in enuy rold,
Alwayes within it self doth burne.
Thus euery thing that nature wrought,
Within it self his hurt doth beare:
No outward harme nede to be sought,
Where enmies be within so neare.
Within it self his hurt doth beare:
No outward harme nede to be sought,
Where enmies be within so neare.
Songes and Sonettes | ||