In Prison

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.