Why fearest thou thy outward foe?

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 a seed.

So fine was never yet the cloth,

No smith so hard his iron did beat,

But the one consumed was with moth,

The other with canker all to fret.

The knotty oak and wainscoat old

Within doth eat the silly worm:

Even so a mind in envy roll'd

Always within itself doth burn.

Thus every thing that Nature wrought

Within itself his hurt doth bear:

No outward harm need to be sought

Whose enemies be within so near.