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;