Classic Poem

Beat on proud billowes, Boreas blow,
Swell curled Waves, high as Jove's roof,
Your incivility doth shew,
That innocence is tempest proof,
Though surely Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm,
Then strike affliction, for thy wounds are balm.

That which the world miscalls a Gaole,
A private Closet is to me,
Whilst a good Conscience is my Baile,
And Innocence my Liberty:
Locks Barres and Solitude together met,
Make me no Prisoner but an Anchorit.

I whil'st I wish'd to be retir'd
Into this private room was turn'd,
As if their wisedomes had conspir'd,
The Salamander should be burn'd.
Or like a Sophy yet would drown a fish,
I am constrain'd to suffer what I wish.

The Cynick hugs his poverty,
The Pelican her wilderness,
And 'tis the Indians pride to be
Naken on frozen Caucasus .
Contentment cannot smart, Stoicks we see
Make torments easie to their Apathy.

These Manacles upon my Arm,
I as my Mistris's favours wear;
And for to keep my Ankles warm,
I have some Iron Shackles there.
These walls are but my Garrison; this Cell
Which men call Gaole, doth prove my Cittadel.

So he that strook at Jasons life,
Thinking he had his purpose sure:
By a malicious friendly Knife,
Did only wound him to a cure.
Malice I see wants wit, for what is meant,
Mischief oft-times, proves favour by th' event.

I'm in this Cabinet lockt up,
Like some high-prized Margaret ,
Or like some great Mogul or Pope,
Are cloystered up from publick sight.
Retirement is a piece of Majesty,
And thus proud Sultan , I'm as great as thee.

Here sin for want of food must starve,
Where tempting Objects are not seen;
And these strong Walls do only serve,
To keep Vice out, and keep me in.
Malice of late 's grown charitable sure,
I'm not committed, but I'm kept secure.

Whence once my Prince affliction hath,
Prosperity doth Treason seem;
And for to smooth so tough a Path,
I can learn Patience from him.
Now not to suffer, shews no Loyal heart,
When Kings want ease, Subjects must bear a part

Have you not seen the Nightingale,
A Pilgrim coop'd into a Cage,
How doth she chant her wonted tale,
In that her narrow hermitage.
Even then her charming melody doth prove,
That all her Boughs are Trees, her Cage a Grove.

My soul is free as the ambient aire,
Although my baser part 's immur'd,
Whil'st Loyal thoughts do still repair,
T' accompany my Solitude.
And though immur'd, yet I can chirp and sing,
Disgrace to Rebels, glory to my King.

What though I cannot see my King,
Neither in his Person or his Coyne,
Yet contemplation is a thing,
That renders what I have not mine.
My King from me, what Adamant can part,
Whom I do wear engraven on my heart.

I am that Bird whom they combine,
Thus to deprive of Liberty;
But though they do my Corps confine,
Yet maugre hate, my Soul is free.
Although Rebellion do my Body bind,
My King can only captivate my mind.