The enlarged windes, that curle the flood, Stone walls doe not a prison make, 25 Nor iron barres a cage; Mindes, innocent and quiet, take That for an hermitage; If I have freedom in my love, Angels alone, that soare above, LOVELACE. 30 LOYALTY CONFINED. BEAT on, proud billows; Boreas, blow; Swell, curled waves, high as Jove's roof; Your incivility doth show, That innocence is tempest-proof; Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm; 5 Then strike, Affliction, for thy wounds are balm. That which the world miscalls a jail, A private closet is to me: Whilst a good conscience is my And innocence my liberty; bail, 10 Locks, bars, and solitude, together met, I, whilst I wish'd to be retired, The salamander should be burn'd: The cynic loves his poverty; The pelican her wilderness; And 't is the Indian's pride to be Contentment cannot smart; Stoics, we see, These manacles upon my arm I, as my mistress' favours, wear; I have some iron shackles there: These walls are but my garrison; this cell, I'm in the cabinet lock'd up, 25 30 Like some high-prized margarite, Or like the Great Mogul, or Pope, Am cloyster'd up from public sight: | Retiredness is a piece of majesty, 35 And thus, proud Sultan, I'm as great as thee. Here sin for want of food must starve, Where tempting objects are not seen; To keep vice out, and keep me in: 40 So he that struck at Jason's life, Thinking to have made his purpose sure, By a malicious friendly knife, 45 55 Did only wound him to a cure. Malice, I see, wants wit; for what is meant When once my prince affliction hath, Prosperity doth treason seem; And to make smooth so rough a path, I can learn patience from him: Now not to suffer, shows no loyal heart; When kings want ease, subjects must bear a part. What though I cannot see my king, That renders what I have not, mine My king from me what adamant can part, Have you not seen the nightingale, Even then her charming melody doth prove, I am that bird, whom they combine And though immured, yet can I chirp, and sing Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king! 50 My soul is free as ambient air, Attributed to L'ESTRANGE. 75 DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST. THE glories of our birth and state There is no armour against fate : Death lays his icy hand on kings: Sceptre and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, The garlands wither on your brow, Upon Death's purple altar now See, where the victor-victim bleeds! 5 10 15 20 All heads must come To the cold tomb:- Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. SHIRLEY. CONTENT. THIS only grant me, that my means may Not from great deeds, but good alone; lie Acquaintance I would have, but when 't depends Books should, not business, entertain the light, Than palace, and should fitting be For all my use, no luxury. My garden painted o'er With Nature's hand, not Art's; can pleasures yield, Horace might envy in his Sabine field. 10 16 Thus would I double my life's fading space; For he that runs it well, twice runs his race. And in this true delight, These unbought sports, this happy state, I would not fear, nor wish my fate: But boldly say each night, To-morrow let my sun his beams display, Or in clouds hide them; I have lived to-day. COWLEY. T 20 |