Contentment cannot smart; stoics we see
Make torments easy to their apathy.
These manacles upon my arm 25
I, as my mistress’ favours, wear;
And for to keep my ancles warm,
I have some iron shackles there:
These walls are but my garrison; this cell,
Which men call jail, doth prove my citadel. 30
I’m in the cabinet locked up,
Like some high-prizèd margarite,