And now we've told you all our loves,
And likewise all our fears,

In hopes this declaration moves
Some pity for our tears;

Let's hear of no inconstancy,
We have too much of that at sea.
With a fa la, la, la, la.

Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset.

LXXVII.

TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON.

WHEN Love with unconfinèd wings
Hovers within my gates,

And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at the grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair
And fetter'd to her eye,

The birds that wanton in the air
Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round
With no allaying Thames,

Our careless heads with roses crown'd,
Our hearts with loyal flames;

When thirsty grief in wine we steep,

When healths and draughts go free-.
Fishes that tipple in the deep
Know no such liberty.

When, linnet-like confined, I

With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty
And glories of my king;

When I shall voice aloud how good
He is, how great should be,
Enlarged winds, that curl the flood,
Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for a hermitage:

If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone, that soar above,
Enjoy such liberty.

Richard Lovelace.

LXXVIII.

LOYALTY CONFINED.

(Written when a prisoner in the Tower, during Cromwell's usurpation.)

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-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.
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.

LXXIX.

Sir Roger L'Estrange.

THE MEANS TO ATTAIN HAPPY LIFE.

MARTIAL, the things that do attain
The happy life be these, I find—
The riches left, not got with pain;
The fruitful ground, the quiet mind,
The equal friend; no grudge, no strife;
No charge of rule, nor governance;
Without disease, the healthful life;
The household of continuance;

The mean diet, no delicate fare;

True wisdom join'd with simpleness;
The night discharged of all care,

Where wine the wit may not oppress;

The faithful wife, without debate;

Such sleep as may beguile the night;
Contented with thine own estate,

Nor wish for death, nor fear his might.

Earl of Surrey.

LXXX.

CONTENT.

SWEET are the thoughts that savour of content :-
The quiet mind is richer than a crown;
Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent-
The poor estate scorns Fortune's angry frown :
Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss,
Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss.

The homely house that harbours quiet rest,

The cottage that affords no pride or care, The mean that 'grees with country music best, The sweet consort of mirth and music's fare. Obscured life sets down a type of bliss; A mind content both crown and kingdom is. Robert Greene.

LXXXI.

THE WISH.

WELL then; I now do plainly see
This busy world and I shall ne'er agree;
The very honey of all earthly joy

Does of all meats the soonest cloy;
And they, methinks, deserve my pity,
Who for it can endure the stings,
The crowd, and buz, and murmurings
Of this great hive, the city.

Ah, yet, ere I descend to th' grave,
May I a small house and large garden have!
And a few friends, and many books; both true,
Both wise, and both delightful too!

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!
She, who is all the world, and can exclude
In deserts solitude.