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When I shall voice aloud how good
He is, how great should be,
Know no such liberty.
Nor iron bars a cage ;
That for an hermitage:
And in my soul am free,
TO LUCASTA, ON GOING BEYOND THE SEAS.
If to be absent were to be
Away from thee;
You or I were alone ;
Then, my Lucasta, might I crave
Our faith and troth,
All time and space controls :
Above the highest sphere we meet
If thus our lips and eyes
Can speak like spirits unconfined
A CAVALIER WAR-SONG.
A steed, a steed, of matchless speed,
A sword of metal keen;
All else on earth is mean.
The rolling of the drum,
Be sounds from heaven that come.
Whenas their war-cries swell,
And rouse a fiend from hell.
And don your helms amain;
Us to the field again.
When the sword-hilt's in our hand;
For the fairest in the land.
Thus weep and puling cry;
с THE SOLDIER GOING TO THE FIELD.
Preserve thy sighs, unthrifty girl,
The trumpet makes the echo hoarse,
For I must go, where lazy peace
But first I'll chide thy cruel theft ;
Thy payment shall but double be ;
Sir William Davenant.
Beat on, proud billows; Boreas, blow;
Swell, curlèd waves, high as Jove's roof;
That innocence is tempest-proof:
That which the world miscalls a jail,
A private closet is to me,
Whilst a good conscience is my bail,
And innocence my liberty:
I, whilst I wished to be retired,
Into this private room was turned;
The salamander should be burned;
The cynic loves his poverty;
The pelican her wilderness;
Naked on frozen Caucasus :
These manacles upon my arm
I, as my mistress' favours, wear;
I have some iron shackles there :
I'm in the cabinet locked up,
Like some high-prizèd margarite,
Am cloistered up from public sight :
Here sin for want of food must starve,
Where tempting objects are not seen;
To keep vice out, and keep me in:
Malice of late's grown charitable, sure,
So he that struck at Jason's life,
Thinking to have made his purpose sure,
Did only wound him to a cure :
When once my Prince affliction hath,
Prosperity doth treason seem;
I can learn patience from him:
What though I cannot see my King,
Neither in person nor in coin;
That renders what I have not, mine:
Have you not seen the nightingale,
A pilgrim, coopt into a cage,
In that her narrow hermitage?
I am that bird, whom they combine
Thus to deprive of liberty;
Yet, maugre hate, my soul is free: