 | Poems By John Hall |  |
The Ermine.
The Ermine rather chose to dieA Martyr of its purity,
Then that one uncouth soile should staine
It's hitherto preserved skin,
And thus resolv'd she thinkes it good
To write her whitenesse in her blood.
But I had rather die, then e're
Continue from my foulenesse cleere;
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That onely doth destruction give;
Mad-man I am, I turne mine Eye
On every side, but what doth lie
Within I can no better finde,
Then if I ever had been blind.
Is this the reason thou dost claime
Thy sole prerogative, to frame
Engines againe thy selfe? O fly
Thy selfe as greatest enemy,
And thinke thou sometimes life wilt get
By a secure contemning it.
| Poems By John Hall | |