 | The Workes of Benjamin Jonson |  |
236
To the Right Honourable, the Lord high Treasurer of England.
An Epistle Mendicant.
My Lord;
Poore wretched states, prest by extremities,
Are faine to seeke for succours, and supplies
Of Princes aides, or good mens Charities.
Are faine to seeke for succours, and supplies
Of Princes aides, or good mens Charities.
Disease, the Enemie, and his Ingineeres
Want, with the rest of his conceal'd compeeres,
Have cast a trench about mee, now five yeares.
Want, with the rest of his conceal'd compeeres,
Have cast a trench about mee, now five yeares.
And made those strong approaches, by False braies,
Reduicts, Halfe-moones, Horne-workes, and such close wayes,
The Muse not peepes out, one of hundred dayes.
Reduicts, Halfe-moones, Horne-workes, and such close wayes,
The Muse not peepes out, one of hundred dayes.
But lyes block'd up, and straightned, narrow'd in,
Fix'd to the bed, and boords, unlike to win
Health, or scarce breath, as she had never bin.
Fix'd to the bed, and boords, unlike to win
Health, or scarce breath, as she had never bin.
Unlesse some saving-Honour of the Crowne,
Dare thinke it, to relieve, no lesse renowne,
A Bed-rid Wit, then a besieged Towne.
Dare thinke it, to relieve, no lesse renowne,
A Bed-rid Wit, then a besieged Towne.
| The Workes of Benjamin Jonson | |