Poems By John Hall | ||
89
Selfe.
1
Traitor selfe, why do I tryThee, my bitterst Enemy?
What can I beare
Alas more deare
Then is this Center of my selfe my heart?
Yet all those traines that blow me up lie there
Hid in so small a part.
2
How many back-bones nourisht haveCrawling Serpents in the grave? I am alive,
Yet life doe give
To Myriads of Adders in my breast,
Which doe not there consume, but grow and thrive,
And undisturbed rest.
3
Still gnawing where they first were bred,Consuming where they're nourished,
Endeavouring still
Even him to kill
90
To entertaine them: that tyrannicke Ill
So radicated is.
4
Most fatall men what can we haveTo trust? our bosomes will deceive;
The cleerest thought
To witnesse brought,
Will speake against us and condemne us too,
Yea and they all are knowne. O how we ought
To sift them through!
5
Yet what's our diligence even allThose sands to number that do fall
Chac'd by the winde?
Nay we may finde
A mighty difference; who would suppose
This little thing so fruitfull were and blind
As it's owne ruine showes?
Poems By John Hall | ||