 | Poems on Affairs of State |  |
A Paradox against Liberty.
Written by the Lords, during their Imprisonment in the Tower, 1679.
A prison, or an Isle, are much the same;
They only differ in Conceit and Name.
As Art the first, Nature immures the last;
Only i'th' larger Mold her Figure's cast.
All Islanders are in a Prison pent,
And none at large, not those o'th' Continent.
Each Mariner's a Prisoner in his Bark,
The living World was prison'd in the Ark.
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Still lodges in the Prison of black Night.
The Sea it self is to its Bounds confin'd,
And Æolus in Caves shuts up the Wind.
Nothing in Nature has such vast Extent,
But is imprison'd in its Element.
The Fish in watry Dungeons are inclos'd;
Men, Beasts and Birds, to Earth and Air dispos'd.
If to enlarge their narrow Bounds they strive,
The fatal Freedom rarely they survive.
And as with them, we hope with us 'twill be,
When from their Prisons took, Death sets them free.
Man can no more a native Freedom boast;
That Jewel ne'er was found since first 'twas lost,
'Twas then transported to the Stygian Coast.
But still there's something which we do esteem,
Only because 'tis like the polisht Gem,
And this we Freedom call; its Credit grows
From a false Stamp, the gilded outside shows:
Which avaritious Men attempt to get,
Cheated and ruin'd with the Counterfeit.
Like Children, Soapy-bubbles they pursue,
And the fantastick Vision take for true;
But whilst they think bright Forms they do embrace,
Ixion-like, they find a Cloud i'th' place.
Consent of Crouds exceeding Credit brings,
And seems to stamp Truth's Image on false things;
Not what's a real Good, but what does seem,
Still shares the blind and popular Esteem.
Whilst Sense and Fancy over-rule their Choice,
And Reason in th'Election has no Voice.
But Souls in vain have Reason's Attribute,
If to their Rule they cannot Sense submit.
Hence the Heroick Mind makes no complaint,
But Freedom does enjoy, e'en in Restraint.
When Chains and Fetters do his Body bind,
He then appears more free, and less confin'd.
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In Durance take their leave, and come not there.
False Friends and Flatterers then take last adieu,
Who often swore how faithful and how true,
Things their dishonest Bosoms never knew.
These, like the Swallows, in cold Weather fly;
A Summer's Fortune only draws them nigh.
Flatt'rers a sort of fatal Suckers be,
Which draw the Sap till they destroy the Tree.
Fair Virtue to their Opticks when they bring,
Seems a deform'd and antiquated thing.
Vice they commend, whilst Virtue is despis'd;
The Blackest by these Negroes most are pris'd.
These Slaves to Vice do hug so hard and long,
Till like the o'er-fond Ape they kill their Young.
Ambition in the Mind's a feverish Thirst,
Which is by drinking drier than at first;
And these will feed the Humor till it burst.
When Parasites the Arbiters are made,
They'l place the Garland on a Bedlam's Head.
Riot, Excess, and Pleasure car' the Day,
And Lust (the worst of Tyrants) bears the sway,
At whose black Throne they blind Allegiance pay.
Morose and dull they do account the Grave;
And the meek Man, fit only for a Slave:
The Humble, of a Nature poor and base;
The Chast, sprung from a dull insipid Race;
And Temperance a Gallant's chief Disgrace.
In Virtue's Garb the great Man's Vice they dress,
Giving it Names which sound of Worthiness.
They call his Pride the Grandeur of his Mind,
And for his Lust the Name they have design'd
Is a complaisant Air, that makes Men kind.
Profaneness is his Wit; and his Excess
By a gay janty Humour they express;
All his Debauches too must be no less.
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But Vice destroys like Ivy, where it climbs.
In us, the dang'rous State th'Ambitious see
Of Greatness, Avarice, and Flattery.
Gifts, Honors, Office, Greatness, Grace of Kings,
Raise the Ambitious upon Treach'rous Wings;
Till from the mighty heights they giddy grow,
And fall into the Ruin lies below.
If the first fail, which do support our State,
The last our Fall serve to precipitate.
This with too dear Experience we have bought,
And learnt a Lesson, which too late was taught.
Prosperity's a Drug, that must be ta'en
Corrected (Opium like) or else 'tis bane:
A more Lethargick Quality's in her,
Than ever yet in Opium did appear.
Her fatal Poison to the Mind she sends;
And uncorrect, in sure Destruction ends;
Whilst in the way her gilded snares she lays,
Easy and credulous Man she soon betrays;
Who sees her Roses and her Lillies here,
But her concealed Snakes doth never fear.
Prosperity's Repasts puff up the Mind
With unsubstantial and unwholesom Wind.
'Tis a Hault-Goust which Epicures do use,
And choicer Viands squeamishly refuse.
But when Affliction moulds your daily Bread,
'Tis then the staff of Life with which she's fed.
Affliction (like the River Nile) bestows
Her fruitful Blessings wheresoe'er she flows:
And if when she withdraws, strange Serpents rise,
Not in her Streams, but in the Soil it lies.
Which (like the great Apollo) she strikes dead,
By the same Influence they first were bred,
If she return, and shew her hidden head.
Great Minds (like the victorious Palms) are wont
Under the Weights of Fortune more to mount.
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Fill'd with sublimer Thoughts they more rebound;
Still careless whether Fortune smile or frown,
Whether she give or take away a Crown.
Our Walls are tided, and by that we know
She always ebbs when she doth leave to flow,
And constant in Inconstancy does grow.
Make an attack all Injuries that can,
They fall like Waves beneath a Rising Swan.
Freed and secur'd from all discordant Care,
Here we our Heads above the Billows bear,
Till from our Shoulders they transplanted are.
And from their summits, with dumb Gapes proclaim,
Of a Quincumvirat the trait'rous shame.
But during all this Storm, we still do find
An Anchor and a Haven in our Mind,
Not beaten now, tho then expos'd to th'Wind.
As Nightingals, our Bosoms we expose,
And sing, environ'd with the sharpest Woes.
Degraded from vain Honour here we grow
More great and high, as Trees by lopping do.
Honour's like Froth in each Man's Glass of Beer;
'Tis least of use, tho topmost it appear.
The common Vouchee for ill Acts she's grown;
It and Religion all our Mischiefs own.
She reigns in Youth with an unruly Heat,
And in her falser Mirror shews them Great,
Till Age and Time convince them of the Cheat.
Rash Heads approve what sober Men despise,
And the fantastick Garb offends the Wise;
She rarely now is seen, but in Disguise.
True Honour and plain Honesty's the same;
From various Dwellings comes the various Name:
For whilst she's gay in Courts, she's Honour there,
But Honesty with us in Durance here.
Indiffering States, most things have difference:
What pleas'd this day, the next offends the Prince.
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Prisoners abhor, what free, they did approve:
And still there's Power in each Man's Choice to make
Himself content, if he can wisely take,
And think his own (tho hard) a happy Stake.
In every state does some Contentment dwell,
And here we find a Palace in a Cell.
Good's good ev'ry where, and every thing,
And Good can of it self no Evil bring.
All Good's a Ray of the first Light alone;
When Ill approaches, only that's our own.
Vertue's not gain'd by spending of our Days
In Pleasure, Prince's Courts, or from their Rays.
At Vertue's Coast by Travel we arrive,
And so by Travel Vertue's kept alive.
She dwindles if she want due Exercise;
But us'd, grows brighter, and still multiplies.
Vertue increases Snow-ball like, roll'd on:
A lazy Vertue's next of kin to none.
Pris'ners indeed they be, that do lay by
At once their Freedom and their Industry.
If Men turn Drones within these hony'd Hives,
It lies i'th' Pris'ner's Heart, and not his Gives.
The Good grow better here, the Bad grow worse;
The Spur that makes this go, does jade that Horse.
Hence the great'st part are Male-content and Sad,
Since that the Good are fewer than the Bad.
A Bliss that springs from penitential Joy,
Is the Mind's Balsam in each sharp Annoy;
Fools only their own Comforts do destroy.
To this Retirement we can freely go;
'Tis the great'st pace of Majesty below:
Our stirring out imports the World to know.
The Goaler's Centinel to guard our Doors,
And Castles are contain'd i'th' narrow Floors.
More happy and more safe, secur'd from Foes,
Than those whom Troops of Enemies inclose.
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Being secur'd from such a mighty Host
Of deadly Foes, so fierce with Wrath and Might,
Our selves so feeble, and unfit to fight
'Gainst the black Band of Vicious and Profane,
Who Thousands do undo in each Campaign.
In the Assault, we seldom brook the Field,
But fly like Hares, or else like Cowards yield.
Yet this the World esteems an hard Estate,
And us, who feel it, count unfortunate.
Shew then, Philosophy! the State wherein
Such Safety, and so much Content is seen;
Wherein less rugged or steep Hindrance lies,
T'obstruct the Path unto Perfection's prize.
The useful Rod's only bound up for this,
To whip and lash the Childish on to Bliss;
Who sullenly refuse the Rod to kiss,
And so the Blessing in the Whipping miss.
Some, like the Whale, only design'd to play
In fruitless Pleasures, drive the flying Day;
As Boys with Clackers drive the Linet away.
Whilst here, we stop the hours of Time, that flies,
With Contemplation's nobler Exercise.
Maugre all Goals, think we e'er long must dye,
And then enjoy an endless Liberty;
Death will redeem from long Captivity.
Man's Life's a Piece spun of a various Thred;
In some 'tis fine, in some a coarser Web.
The Threds across, th'Occurrences of Fate,
Cut early from the Loom by Death or late.
The Dread of Kings, Death does not us dismay;
To dye's less, than be tantaliz'd each day:
What Man complains, with Weariness opprest,
That Night is come, the only time to rest?
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