That can be, for it doth embrace all wrongs,
And so chains up lawyers' and women's tongues.
'Tis the perpetual prisoner's liberty—
His walks and orchards; 'tis the bondslave's freedom,
And makes him seem proud of his iron chain,
As though he wore it more for state than pain;
It is the beggar's music, and thus sings—
Although their bodies beg, their souls are kings.
O my dread liege! it is the sap of bliss
Bears us aloft, makes men and angels kiss;