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.
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.