O what a cunning guest Is this same grief! within my heart I made Closets; and in them many a chest; And, like a master in my trade, In those chests, boxes; in each box, a till: Yet grief knows all, and enters when he will. No screw, no piercer can Into a piece of timber work and wind, As God’s afflictions into man, When he a torture hath designed. They are too subtle for the subtlest hearts; And fall, like rheums, upon the tend’rest parts. We are the earth; and they, Like moles within us, heave, and cast about: And till they foot and clutch their prey, They never cool, much less give out. No smith can make such locks but they have keys: Closets are halls to them; and hearts, high-ways. Only an open breast Doth shut them out, so that
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