THE PRISONERS COMPLAINT TO THE KING's most Excellent Majesty.  
OR, The CRIES of the King's Bench.  
WITH ADVICE To the disconsolate Gentlemen-Prisoners in the several Prisons of England, especially the King's Bench.  
BY S. S. a Fellow of King's College in Southwark.  
LONDON: Printed for Samuel Speed, 1673.   

The PRISONERS COMPLAINT To the Kings most Excellent Majesty. OR, The Cries of the KING'S BENCH.  
SAcred Physician!  

We your Aid implore:  
Grant this our-Suit. We never asked before.  
'Tis You alone, Great SIR, can give us ease,  
Beyond or Galen, or Hypocrates.  
Then since we Cripples are in our estate,  
And each one Captive to his rigid Fate,  
Occasioned by the Wars, the Plague, and Fire,  
All which were instrumental to conspire  
Our ruins. Be You, Sir, th'angelic man  
To prove at last our Good Samaritan.  
Nero (we read) was subject to destroy;  
But You're the Sovereign of our Hopes & Joy.   

Your gracious Act for us, and our relief,  
We see, and read, though to peruse our grief:  
Your Laws are good and just; yet so oreswayed,  
By some they're broke, by others disobeyed.  
Each Clerk's a Justice, and each Justice too  
Pretends to mend those Laws, Sir, made by You.  
Thus we lie subject to a Brace of ills;  
The Conscience of our Creditors, the Wills  
Of sordid Officers, a horrid Tribe,  
That love not Prisoners, but the Prisoners Bribe.  
Thus, Sacred Sir, whenas our wounds wax wide,  
You find us Balsams, but they're ill applied.   

When the late Act was past, we did assure  
Ourselves there was no doubt of certain Cure:  
But upstart Mountebanks did so divide  
Your Laws, that they have made our wounds more wide.  
Then may Yourself, and Council, Sir, contrive  
No more of us may starve, but some may live.  
'Tis You our welfare must design to work,  
Or every Creditor will prove a Turk;  
Who though you teach them to observe our groans,  
Will weekly pay a Tribute to our Bones.  
Be then our Pilot, and correct our fears:  
For we swim to You, Sir, in Seas of Tears.   

May our Lord Chancellor incline his heart  
With mercy to commiserate our smart.  
Though any man can die whenere he please,  
His Habeas Corpus can afford us ease  
And liberty, a more expedient way,  
Yet neither Law nor Conscience disobey.  
May the High Court of Parliament once more  
Review that Act they lately passed before.  
And may each Judge consider so to do,  
They may be honoured, and be prayed for too.  
Your Laws are Cordials to a Commonweal,  
That, like Achilles' lance, both hurt and heal.   

Our Griefs are great, and their immortal hate  
Will breed at length but Moths in their estate.  
You are the Gilead that must yield us Balm,  
Or we shall sink ere we behold a Calm.  
What You have done for Prisoners that are weak,  
Sufficient is to make a Dumb man speak:  
But in your Progress if you make a stay,  
We must with patience suffer, weep, and pray.  
We hope at last that Heaven will have an ear,  
Or to our groans, or each ones silent tear.  
Thither with zeal we send our pious Suit.  
Sighs may be vocal; though the tongue be mute.    

ADVICE To the disconsolate Gentlemen-Prisoners In the Prison-Royal, commonly called The King's Bench.  

A Prison is a Cage of certain Cares,  
Whose Birds sing tunes of Discords and despairs.  
So fares it in this fickle world;  
Man's like a Football tossed and hurled.  
Even the poor and honest Prisoners lie,  
Like silver Swans, to sing their last, and die.   

But what's a Prison, when the Soul is free!  
A Jail is but the world's Epitome:  
There ye contemplate how to lie  
I'th' Grave, before ye come to die;  
Whilst others heaping up their stores of Pelf,  
Have no more Land, when dead, than you yourself.   

Consider, there are thousands are so low,  
That they'd be glad to be as ye are now.  
Your want of liberty's a Rod,  
To scourge you nearer to your God.  
Thus Providence to Prisoners is most kind,  
Their eyes to open, leaving others blind.   

What's your Confinement, but a certain Rule  
That leads to Happiness, afflictions School!  
To know no Sorrow, is no more  
Then to be equal with a Boar.  
A Prison is an honourable Jail,  
Where a clear Conscience is the Prisoners Bayl.   

Let Reason be your virtue, and your Guide:  
Impatience will but make your wounds more wide.  
If any be afflicted, pray:  
It is to Sorrows an allay.  
Is any merry? let this be his Psalm:  
Strike harder, Fate, for every Bruise is Balm.   

Since by Misfortunes it is so decreed  
That ye should all things (but a Prison) need;  
Laugh at those Sorrows come to day;  
To morrow they may pass away.  
To be dejected, is but to deprive  
Yourselves of finding out a means to thrive.   

If you're despised, pity those poor Elves  
That laugh at you, before they know themselves  
Your turn is past, you know your doom;  
And theirs, to morrow, is to come:  
'Tis Martial-law, which Prisoners love no more  
Than Turks love Christians, on the Turkie-shore.   

happy's that Prisoner, that can live above  
The reach of Fate, or the Intrigues of Love:  
There's no light object to pervert  
The Candour of an upright heart.  
Those Iron-bars that do your bodies hold,  
Are far less burden some then Chains of Gold.   

Where Care will help, there have a careful heart;  
Where Care will not, ne'er act a foolish part:  
For all the help that Care can do,  
Is but to make One Sorrow Two.  
Then take no Care but only to be Jolly.  
To be more wretched than ye need, is folly.    
FINIS.