Why fearest thou thy outward foe,
When thou thyself thy harm dost feed?
Of grief, or hurt, of pain, or woe,
Within each thing is sown the seed.

So fine was never yet the cloth,
No smith so hard his iron did beat, —
But th' one consumid was with moth,
Th' other with canker all to fret.

The knotty oak and wainscot old,
Within doth eat, the silly worm:
Even so a mind in envy rolled
Always within itself doth burn.

Thus every thing that nature wrought,
Within itself his hurt doth bear:
No outward harm need to be sought,
Where en'mies be within so near.