The Liberty and Requiem of an Imprisoned Royalist

BEAT on, proud billows; Boreas, blow

Swelled curlëd waves high as Jove's roof;

Your incivility shall know

That innocence is tempest-proof.

Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm;

Then strike, afflictions, for your wounds are balm.

That which the world miscalls a jail,

A private closet is to me.

Whilst a good conscience is my bail,

And innocence is my liberty.

Locks, bars, walls, loneness, though together met,

Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret.

I, whilst I wished to be retired,

Into this private room was turned,

As if their wisdoms had conspired

A salamander should be burned;

And like those sophies who would drown a fish,

I am condemned to suffer what I wish.

The Cynic hugs his poverty,

The pelican her wilderness,

And 'tis the Indian's pride to lie

Naked on frozen Caucasus.

And like to these, Stoics severe we see

Make torments easy by their apathy.

These manacles upon my arm

I as my sweetheart's favors wear,

And then to keep my ankles warm

I have some iron shackles there;

These walls are but my garrison, this cell

Which men call jail doth prove my citadel.

So he that struck at Jason's life,

Thinking h' had made 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, oftimes proves favor by th' event.

I'm in this cabinet locked up,

Like some high prizëd margarite;

Or like some great Mogul or Pope,

Am cloistered up from public sight;

Retiredness is part of majesty,

And thus, proud Sultan, I'm as great as thee.

Here sin for want of food doth starve,

Where tempting objects are not seen,

And these walls do only serve

To keep vice out, not keep me in.

Malice of late's grown charitable sure,

I'm not committed, but am kept secure.

When once my prince affliction hath,

Prosperity doth treason seem,

And then to smooth so rough a path

I can learn patience too from him.

Now not to suffer shows no loyal heart,

When kings want ease, subjects must love to smart.

My soul's free as th' ambient air,

Although my baser parts immured,

Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair

T' accompany my solitude.

And though rebellion do my body bind,

My king can only captivate my mind.

Have you not seen the nightingale

When turned a pilgrim to a cage,

How she doth sing her wonted tale

In that her narrow hermitage?

Ever there her chanting melody doth prove

That all her bars are trees, her cage a grove.

I am that bird, which they combine

Thus to deprive of liberty,

Who though they do my corpse confine,

Yet maugre hate, my soul is free;

And though immured, yet can I chirp and sing

Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king.

Sir Roger L'Estrange