 | Claraphil and Clarinda |  |
The Prisoners.
In a Dungeon deep we lie,
Cramp'd with Cold Captivity,
VVhere the Bed-less bottom owns
Nothing to relieve our Bones,
Yet such is the sacred scope of the Soul
That we never shrink
At the stink,
VVhen cold water we drink,
'Cause Conscience crowns the Bowl.
Cramp'd with Cold Captivity,
VVhere the Bed-less bottom owns
Nothing to relieve our Bones,
Yet such is the sacred scope of the Soul
That we never shrink
At the stink,
VVhen cold water we drink,
'Cause Conscience crowns the Bowl.
Fetter'd in this filth we lie,
For we know not what, nor why,
But we ghess (if understood)
'Twill appear for being Good;
That Law doth strangely on Conscience entrench.
VVhere known true men are
Planted (far
From the Judge) at the Bar,
And Felony fills the Bench.
For we know not what, nor why,
But we ghess (if understood)
'Twill appear for being Good;
That Law doth strangely on Conscience entrench.
VVhere known true men are
Planted (far
From the Judge) at the Bar,
And Felony fills the Bench.
By the Pride of impious Powers,
This unhappy Case is ours:
VVe are lost in Wealth and Fame,
Fort a fault that knows no Name,
If it be Reason that sign as our Restraint,
'Tis then to be Good
(Understood)
A Disease of the Bloud,
The Devil is turn'd a Saint.
This unhappy Case is ours:
Fort a fault that knows no Name,
If it be Reason that sign as our Restraint,
'Tis then to be Good
(Understood)
A Disease of the Bloud,
The Devil is turn'd a Saint.
| Claraphil and Clarinda | |