A POEM, Composed by a GENTLEMAN in PRISON AND IN IRONS.  

BAT on proud Billows Boreas blow,  
●well curled Waves hi●● 〈…〉  
Your Incivility doth show,  
That Innocence is Tempest Proof.  
Tho' surly Nereus frown, my Thoughts are calm;  
Then strike Affliction, for thy Wounds are Balm.   

That which the World calls 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 Anchorite.   

I, whilst I wished to be retired,  
Into this private Room was turned,  
As if their Wisdoms had conspired  
The SALAMANDER should be burned;  
But had they known how I enjoyed Me,  
Prompt, by malicious Spite, they'd set me free.   

The cynic hugs his Poverty,  
The PE●●CAN her Wilderness  
 
 
Conten●e●● 〈◇〉 〈◇〉 STOCKS, we 〈◇〉  
Make Torments easy to their apathy.   

These Manacles upon my Arm  
I as my Mistress Favours wear,  
And then to keep my ankles warm  
I have some Iron Shackles there.  
These Walls are but my Prison, and this Cell,  
Which Men call Jail, does prove my citadel.   

So he that struck at Jason's Life,  
Thinking he had 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, oft-times proves Favour by th'event.   

I 'm in this Cabinet locked up,  
Like some high prized Margarite;  
Or, like some great Mogul or Pope,  
Am cloistered up from vulgar Sight.  
Retirement is a Piece of Majesty,  
And thus, proud Sultan, I'm as great as Thee.   

Here Sin, for want of Food, must starve,  
Where tempting Objects are not seen,  
And those 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 I'm kept secure.   

When once my PRINCE Affliction hath,  
Prosperity doth Treason seem,  
And to make smooth so rough a Path,  
I can learn Patience now from him:  
For, not to suffer, shows no Loyal Heart;  
When Kings want Ease, Subjects should bear a Part.   

Have ye not seen the Nightingale,  
A Pilgrim coop't up in a Cage,  
How she doth chant her wonted Tale  
How she her narrow Hermitage?  
even then, her charming Melody doth prove,  
That all her Boughs are Trees, her Cage a Grove.   

My Soul is free as ambient Air,  
Altho' my base Parts immured,  
While Loyal Thoughts do still repair  
T' accompany my Solitude:  
And tho' immured, yet I can chirp and sing  
Disgrace to Rebels, Glory to my KING.   

What tho' I cannot see my KING  
Nor in His Person, nor His Coin,  
Yet 〈◇〉 ●●plation 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.   

I am that bide whom they combine  
Thus to deprive of Liberty,  
But tho' they do my Case confine,  
yet, maugre Spite, my Soul is free:  
Altho' Rebellion do my Body bind,  
My KING can only captivated my Mind.   
FINIS.