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.