Anger.
I
My Friend, run quickly to thy Glass,
And read thy Cure in thine own Face.
Why should the Scorpion be
The readiest Remedy
For his own Poison, and not thou?
Apply, apply; 'twill do, I know.
II
See what black Clouds thy Brow deform
With grim Threats of th'approaching Storm!
Lo! how thy pallid Cheek
And trembling Lips do seek
To make thee understand, how thou
Art posting to self-torture now!
III
Look how thy working troubled Eye
In its own Fire doth strangely fry!
What Frowns plow up the grace
Of thy disturbed Face,
Preventing Time, and making thee
In one hour old and wrinkled be!
IV
On mine rely not, but receive
The Warning that thyself do'st give:
Did'st ever view a Sight
Fuller of ugly Fright?
Be calmer then, in mercy to
Thy tortur'd self, tho' not thy Foe.
