By
John Donne.
In which as in a gallery this mouse
Walk'd, and surveid
the roomes of this vast house,
And to the braine, the soules bedchamber,
went,
And gnaw'd the life cords there; Like a whole towne
Cleane
undermined, the slaine beast tumbled downe;
With him the murtherer dies,
whom envy sent
To kill, not scape, (for, only hee that ment
To
die, did ever kill a man of better roome,)
And thus he made his foe, his
prey, and tombe:
Who cares not to turn back, may any whither come.
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