If I have freedom in my love, Richard Lovelace. LXXIX. LOYALTY CONFINED. (Written when a prisoner in the Tower, during Cromwell's usurpation.) BEAT on, proud billows; Boreas, blow; That innocence is tempest-proof; Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm; That which the world miscalls a jail, Locks, bars, and solitude, together met, To keep rogues out, not keep me in. Into this private room I'm turn'd; The salamander should be burn'd. Or, like those sophists who would drown a fish, The cynic hugs his poverty, The pelican her wilderness; And 'tis the Indian's pride to be Naked on frozen Caucasus. Contentment feels no smart; stoics, we see, Make torments easy by their apathy. I'm in the cabinet lock'd up, Like some high-prizèd margarite; Or like the great Mogul or Pope, I'm cloister'd up from public sight. Retiredness is a part of majesty, And thus, proud Sultan! I am great as thee. These manacles upon my arm I, as my mistress' 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 jail, doth prove my citadel. So he that struck at Jason's life, Thinking to make his purpose sure, By a malicious friendly knife Did only wound him to his cure: Malice, we see, wants wit; for what is meant Mischief, oft times proves favour by th' event. Altho' I cannot see my king Neither in person-nor in coin !— Yet contemplation is a thing That renders that I have not, mine. Have you not heard the nightingale, My soul is free as ambient air, Which doth my outward parts include; Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair T'accompany my solitude. What tho' they do with chains my body bind, I am that bird whom they combine Though I'm mew'd up, yet I can chirp and sing, Arthur Lord Capel. LXXX. THE MEANS TO ATTAIN HAPPY LIFE. MARTIAL, the things that do attain The mean diet, no delicate fare; Where wine the wit may not oppress; The faithful wife, without debate; Nor wish for death, nor fear his might. Earl of Surrey. LXXXI. CONTENT. SWEET are the thoughts that savour of content :-— Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent- The homely house that harbours quiet rest, LXXXII. THE WISH. WELL then; I now do plainly see Does of all meats the soonest cloy; Ah, yet, ere I descend to th' grave, And, since love ne'er will from me flee, A mistress moderately fair, And good as guardian-angels are, Only beloved, and loving me! O, fountains! when in you shall I Myself, eased of unpeaceful thoughts, espy? O fields! O woods! when, when shall I be made The happy tenant of your shade? Here's the spring-head of Pleasure's flood; Where all the riches lie, that she Has coin'd and stamp'd for good. Pride and ambition here Only in far-fetch'd metaphors appear; Here nought but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter, And nought but Echo flatter. The gods, when they descended, hither From Heaven did always choose their way; And therefore we may boldly say That 'tis the way too thither. How happy here should I, And one dear She, live, and embracing die! I should have then this only fearLest men, when they my pleasures see, Should hither throng to live like me, And so make a city here. Abraham Cowley. LXXXIII. THE ANGLER'S WISH. I IN these flowery meads would be; Sit here, and see the turtle-dove Court his chaste mate to acts of love; Or on that bank feel the west wind Here, hear my Kenna sing a song; Or, a laverock build her nest : Thus, free from lawsuits and the noise Or, with my Bryan and a book, And angle on and beg to have Izaak Walton. |