Yet soon, now from my Princess free, 25 I rather frantic grew than glad, For subjects, getting liberty, Get but a license to be mad. Birds that are long in cages awed, If they get out, awhile will roam; 30 But straight want skill to live abroad, Then pine and hover near their home. And to the ocean rivers run From being pent in banks of flowers; Not knowing that the exhaling sun 35 Will send them back in weeping showers. Soon thus for pride of liberty I low desires of bondage found; And vanity of being free Bred the discretion to be bound. 40 But as dull subjects see too late Their safety in monarchal reign, Finding their freedom in a State Is but proud strutting in a chain; Then growing wiser, when undone, 45 In winter nights sad stories sing In praise of monarchs long since gone, To whom their bells they yearly ring; So now I mourned that she was dead, Whose single power did govern me; 50 And quickly was by reason led To find the harm of liberty. Even so the lovers of this land (Love’s empire in Clorinda gone) Thought they were quit from Love’s command, 55 And beauty’s world was all their own. But lovers, who are Nature’s best Old subjects, never long revolt; They soon in passion’s war contest, Yet in their march soon make a halt. 60 And those, when by my mandates brought Near dead Clorinda, ceased to boast Of freedom found, and wept for thought Of their delightful bondage lost. And now the day to night was turned, 65 Or sadly night’s close mourning wore; All maids for one another mourned, That lovers now could love no more. All lovers quickly did perceive They had on earth no more to do 70 Than civilly to take their leave, As worthies that to dying go. And now all quires her dirges sing, In shades of cypress and of yew; The bells of every temple ring, 75 Where maids their withered garlands strew. To such extremes did sorrow rise, That it transcended speech and form, And was so lost to ears and eyes As seamen sinking in a storm. 80 My soul, in sleep’s soft fetters bound, Did now for vital freedom strive; And straight, by horror waked, I found The fair Clorinda still alive. Yet she’s to me but such a light, 85 As are the stars to those who know We can at most but guess their height, And hope they mind us here below. _Sir William Davenant._ CVIII _THE DIRGE._