Classic Poem

The Ermine rather chose to die
A martyr of its purity,
Than that one uncouth soil should stain
Its hitherto preserved skin;
And thus resolv'd she thinks it good
To write her whiteness in her blood.
But I had rather die, than e'er
Continue from my foulness clear;
Nay, I suppose by that I live,
That only doth destruction give:
Madman I am, I turn mine eye
On every side, but what doth lie
Within, I can no better find;
Than if I ever had been blind.
Is this the reason thou dost claim
Thy sole prerogative, to frame
Engines against thyself? O, fly
Thyself as greatest enemy,
And think thou sometimes life will get
By a secure contemning it.