 | Divine poems
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Eleg. 10.
Kinde is that death, whose weapons do but kill,
But we are often slaine, yet dying still;
Our torments are too gentle, yet too rough,
They gripe too hard, because not hard enough;
My people teare their trembling flesh, for food,
And frō their ragged wounds, they suck forth blood
The father dies, and leaves his pined Coarse,
T'inrich his Heire, with meat; The hungry Nurse
Broyles her starv'd suckling on the hastie coales,
Devoures one halfe, and hides the rest in holes:
O Tyrant Famine! that compell'st the Mother,
To kill one hungry Childe, to feed another!
| Divine poems
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