| |
| BEAT on, proud billows; Boreas, blow; | |
| Swell, curlèd 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 bail, | |
| And innocence my liberty: | 10 |
| Locks, bars, and solitude together met, | |
| Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret. | |
| |
| I, whilst I wisht to be retired, | |
| Into this private room was turned; | |
| As if their wisdoms had conspired | 15 |
| The salamander should be burned; | |
| Or like those sophists, that would drown a fish, | |
| I am constrained to suffer what I wish. | |
| |
| The cynic loves his poverty; | |
| The pelican her wilderness; | 20 |
| And ’t is the Indian’s pride to be | |
| Naked on frozen Caucasus: | |
| Contentment cannot smart; stoics we see | |
| Make torments easier to their apathy. | |
| |
| These manacles upon my arm | 25 |
| I as my mistress’ favors 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. | 30 |
| |
| I ’m in the cabinet lockt up, | |
| Like some high-prizèd margarite, | |
| Or, like the Great Mogul or Pope, | |
| Am cloistered up from public sight: | |
| Retiredness is a piece of majesty, | 35 |
| And thus, proud Sultan, I ’m as great as thee. | |
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