William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Restoration Verse. 1910.
Loyalty ConfinedSir Roger LEstrange (16161704)
B
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;
Then strike, Affliction, for thy wounds are balm.
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.
Into this private room was turned;
As if their wisdom had conspired
The salamander should be burned;
Or like a sophy that would drown a fish,
I am constrained to suffer what I wish.
The pelican her wilderness;
And ’tis the Indian’s pride to be
Naked on frozen Caucasus:
Contentment cannot smart; stoics we see
Make torments easy to their apathy.
I, as my mistress’ favours, wear;
And for to keep my ancles warm,
I have some iron shackles there:
These walls are but my garrison; this cell,
Which men call jail, doth prove my citadel.
Like some high-prizèd margarite,
Or like the great Mogul or Pope,
Am cloistered up from public sight:
Retiredness is a piece of majesty,
And thus, proud sultan, I’m as great as thee.
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 am kept secure.
Thinking to’ have made 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, ofttimes proves favour by the event.
Prosperity doth treason seem;
And for to smooth so rough a path,
I can learn patience from him:
Now not to suffer shows no loyal heart,
When kings want ease, subjects must bear a part.
Neither in person nor in coin;
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?
A pilgrim coopt into a cage,
How doth she chaunt her wonted tale
In that her narrow hermitage?
Even there her charming melody doth prove
That all her bars are trees, her cage a grove.
Thus to deprive of liberty;
But though they do my corps confine,
Yet, maugre hate, my soul is free:
And though immured, yet can I chirp and sing
Disgrace to rebels, glory to my King.
Although my baser part’s immewed,
Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair
To’ accompany my solitude:
Although rebellion do my body bind,
My King alone can captivate my mind.