George Herbert (1593–1633)

NO screw, no piercer can

Into a piece of timber worke and winde,

As God’s afflictions into man,

When he a torture hath designed.

They are too subtle for the subtlest hearts;

And fall, like rheumes, upon the tenderest 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 they cannot enter;

Or, if they enter, cannot rest,

But quickly seek some new adventure.

Smooth open hearts no fastening have; but fiction

Doth give a hold and handle to affliction.