40 - Poem by Mary Wroth
False hope which feeds but to destroy, and spill
What it first breeds, unnaturall to the birth
Of thine owne wombe, conceiuing but to kill
And plenty gives to make the greater dearth.
So Tyrants doe, who falsly ruling Earth,
Outwardly grace them, and with profits fill,
Aduance those who appointed are to death;
To make their greater fall to please their will.
Thus shadow they their wicked vile intent,
Colouring evill with a show of good:
While in faire showes their malice so is spent;
Hope kill's the heart, and Tyrants shed the blood.
For Hope deluding brings us to the pride
Of our desires the farther downe to slide.
Comments about 40 by Mary Wroth
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Mary Elizabeth Frye
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You