Conscience.
Internall Cerberus! whose griping fangs,
That gnaw the soul, are the mind's surest pangs.
Thou greedy vulture! that dost gorging tire
On hearts corrupted by impure desire:
Subtle and buzzing hornet! that dost ring
A peal of horrour ere thou givst the sting
The soul's rough file that smoothness does impart!
That hammer that does break a stony heart!
The worm that never dies! the thorn within,
That pricks and pains; the whip and scourge of sin:
The voice of God in man! which, without rest,
Doth softly cry within a troubled breast;
To all temptations is that soul left free
That makes not to itself a curb of thee!
That gnaw the soul, are the mind's surest pangs.
Thou greedy vulture! that dost gorging tire
On hearts corrupted by impure desire:
Subtle and buzzing hornet! that dost ring
A peal of horrour ere thou givst the sting
The soul's rough file that smoothness does impart!
That hammer that does break a stony heart!
The worm that never dies! the thorn within,
That pricks and pains; the whip and scourge of sin:
The voice of God in man! which, without rest,
Doth softly cry within a troubled breast;
To all temptations is that soul left free
That makes not to itself a curb of thee!