In Prison

Sir Roger L’Estrange (1616–1704)

BEAT on, proud billows; Boreas, blow;

Swell, curlèd waves, high as Jove’s roof;

Your incivility doth show

That innocence is tempest proof;

Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm;

Then strike, Affliction, for thy 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 my liberty:

Locks, bars, and solitude together met,

Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret.

I, whilst I wisht to be retired,

Into this private room was turned;

As if their wisdoms had conspired

The salamander should be burned;

Or like those sophists, that would drown a fish,

I am constrained to suffer what I wish.

The cynic loves his poverty;

The pelican her wilderness;

And ’t is the Indian’s pride to be

Naked on frozen Caucasus:

Contentment cannot smart; stoics we see

Make torments easier to their apathy.

These manacles upon my arm

I as my mistress’ favors wear;

And for 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.

I ’m in the cabinet lockt up,

Like some high-prizèd margarite,

Or, like the Great Mogul or Pope,

Am cloistered up from public sight:

Retiredness is a piece of majesty,

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