24. The Collar

I STRUCK the board, and cry’d, ‘No more;

I will abroad.’

What, shall I ever sigh and pine?

My lines and life are free; free as the rode,

Loose as the winde, as large as store.

Shall I be still in suit?

Have I no harvest but a thorn

To let me bloud, and not restore

What I have lost with cordiall fruit?

Sure there was wine

Before my sighs did drie it; there was corn

Before my tears did drown it.

Is the yeare onely lost to me?

Have I no bayes to crown it,

No flowers, no garlands gay? all blasted,

All wasted?

Not so, my heart; but there is fruit,

And thou hast hands.

Recover all thy sigh-blown age

On double pleasures; leave thy cold dispute

Of what is fit and not; forsake thy cage,

Thy rope of sands,

Which pettie thoughts have made; and made to thee

Good cable, to enforce and draw,

And be thy law,

While thou didst wink and wouldst not see.

Away! take heed;

I will abroad.

Call in thy death’s-head there, tie up thy fears;

He that forbears

To suit and serve his need

Deserves his load.

But as I rav’d and grew more fierce and wilde

At every word,

Me thought I heard one calling, ‘Childe’;

And I reply’d, ‘My Lord.’