Those dangers following thee, wch thou dost feare?
Alas! thou labour'st, and thou runn'st in vaine,
To shunne, by flight, thy terrors, or thy paine;
For, loe, thy Death, which thou hast dreaded so,
Clings fast unto thee, wheresoere thou goe:
And while thou toyl'st, an outward-ease to win,
Thou draw'st thine owne destruction further in;
Making that Arrow, which but prickes thy hide,
To pierce thy tender entrailes, through thy side.
And, well I may this wounded Hart bemoane;