Poems | ||
45
On himselfe being stung by a Wasp.
VVhen first this busie testie Wasp did fixHis sting in me, and did his venome mix
With my untainted bloud, my skin begun
To swell to an Imposthumation.
How did each part by sympathie complaine,
Stretch'd and distorted on the rack of paine?
What flames did this Incendiarie fling
From out the narrow quiver of his sting,
Into each part? which through my veins were thrown,
And through each Nerve and Arterie were blown.
If then a Wasp can so afflict each sense,
How great must be the sting of conscience?
Poems | ||