I, whilst I wished to be retired, Into this private room was turned; As if their wisdom had conspired 15 The salamander should be burned; Or like a sophy that would drown a fish, I am constrained to suffer what I wish. The cynic loves his poverty; The pelican her wilderness; 20 And ’tis the Indian’s pride to be Naked on frozen Caucasus: 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, Or like the great mogul or pope, Am cloistered up from public sight: Retiredness is a piece of majesty, 35 And thus, proud sultan, I’m as great as thee. Here sin for want of food must starve, Where tempting objects are not seen; And these strong walls do only serve To keep vice out, and keep me in: 40 Malice of late’s grown charitable, sure, I’m not committed, but am kept secure. So he that struck at Jason’s life, Thinking to’ have made his purpose sure, By a malicious friendly knife 45 Did only wound him to a cure: Malice, I see, wants wit; for what is meant Mischief, ofttimes proves favour by the event. When once my Prince affliction hath, Prosperity doth treason seem; 50 And for to smooth so rough a path, I can learn patience from him: Now not to suffer shows no loyal heart, When kings want ease, subjects must bear a part. What though I cannot see my King, 55 Neither in person nor in coin; Yet contemplation is a thing That renders what I have not, mine: My King from me what adamant can part, Whom I do wear engraven on my heart? 60 Have you not seen the nightingale, A pilgrim, coopt into a cage, How doth she chaunt her wonted tale In that her narrow hermitage? Even there her charming melody doth prove 65 That all her bars are trees, her cage a grove. I am that bird, whom they combine Thus to deprive of liberty; But though they do my corps confine, Yet, maugre hate, my soul is free: 70 And though immured, yet can I chirp and sing Disgrace to rebels, glory to my King.