[The ascription of this song to L'Estrange is improbable, and we must therefore seek elsewhere for an author.]
Beat on, proud billows; Boreas blow;
Swell, curled waves, high as Jove's roof;
Your incivility doth show,
That innocence is tempest proof;
Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts are calm; 5
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: 10
Locks, bars, and solitude, together met,
Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret.
I, whilst I wisht to be retir'd,
Into this private room was turn'd;
As if their wisdoms had conspir'd 15
The salamander should be burn'd;
Or like those sophists, that would drown a fish,
I am constrain'd to suffer what I wish.
The cynick loves his poverty;
The pelican her wilderness; 20
And 'tis the Indian's pride to be
Naked on frozen Caucasus:
Contentment cannot smart, Stoicks we see
Make torments easie 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