Loyalty Confined

Beat on, proud billows; Boreas, blow;
Swell, curled waves, high as Jove's roof;
Your incivility doth plainly show
That innocence is tempest-proof;
Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm;
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:
Locks, bars, and solitude, together met,
Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret.

Here sin, for want of food, must starve
Where tempting objects are not seen;
And these strong walls do only serve
To keep rogues out, not keep me in.
Malice is now grown charitable, sure:
I'm not committed, but I'm kept secure.

And whilst I wish to be retired,
Into this private room I'm turn'd;
As if their wisdom had conspired
The salamander should be burn'd.
Or, like those sophists who would drown a fish,
I am condemn'd to suffer what I wish.

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-prized 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.
My king from me no adamant can part)
Whom I do wear engraven in my heart.

Have you not heard the nightingale,
A prisoner close kept in a cage.
How she doth chaunt her wonted tale.
In that her narrow hermitage?
Even then her melody doth plainly prove
Her bars are trees, her cage a pleasant grove.

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,
My king alone can captivate my mind,

I am that bird whom they combine
Thus to deprive of liberty;
And tho' they may my corpse confine.
Yet, maugre that, my soul is free:
Though I'm mew'd up, yet I can chirp and sing,
Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king.