Emblem IV.6: When woe is in our selves begun

When woe is in our selves begun,
Then, whither from it, can wee run?

POore Hart, why dost thou run so fast? and why,
Behind thee dost thou looke, when thou dost fly?
As if thou seem'dst in thy swift flight, to heare
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;
For, here, me thinkes, I'm taught to looke upon
Mine owne condition; and, in him, to see
Those deadly wounds, my Sinnes have made in mee.
I greatly feare the World, may unawares
Intangle mee, by her alluring snares:
I am afraid, the Devill may inject
Some poys'nous fume, my Spirit to infect,
With ghostly Pestilence; and, I assay,
To flie from these, with all the pow'rs I may.
But, oh my Flesh! this very Flesh I weare,
Is worse to mee, than Worlds, and Devils are:
For, without this, no pow'r on mee, they had.
This is that Skirt, which made Alcides mad.
It is a griefe, which I shall never cure,
Nor flie from, whilst my life-time doth endure:
From thence, oh Lord, my greatest sorrowes bee;
And, therefore, from my Selfe, I flie to Thee.