How I forsook Elis and Pisa after, and betook Myself to Argos and Mycene, where An earthly God I worshipped, with what there I suffered in that hard captivity, Would be too long for thee to hear, for me Too sad to utter. Only thus much know;-- I lost my labour, and in sand did sow: I writ, wept, sung; hot and cold fits I had; I rid, I stood, I bore, now sad, now glad, Now high, now low, now in esteem, now scorn'd; And as the Delphic iron, which is turned Now to heroic, now to mechanic use, I fear'd no danger--did no pains refuse; Was all things--and was nothing; changed my hair, Condition, custom, thoughts, and life--but ne'er Could change my fortune. Then I knew at last, And panted after my sweet freedom past. So, flying smoky Argos, and the great Storms that attend on greatness, my retreat I made to Pisa--my thought's quiet port. * * * * * Who would have dreamed 'midst plenty to grow poor? Or to be less, by toiling to be more? I thought, by how much more in prince's courts Men did excel in titles and supports, So much the more obliging they would be, The best enamel of nobility. But now the contrary by proofs I've seen: Courtiers in name, and courteous in their mien They are; but in their actions I could spy Not the least transient spark of courtesy. People, in show smooth as the calmed waves, Yet cruel as the ocean when it raves: Men in appearance only did I find, Love in the face, but malice in the mind: With a straight look and tortuous heart, and least Fidelity where greatest was protest. That which elsewhere is virtue, is vice there: Plain truth, fair dealing, love unfeign'd, sincere Compassion, faith inviolable, and An innocence both of the heart and hand, They count the folly of a soul that's vile And poor,--a vanity worthy their smile. To cheat, to lie, deceit and theft to use, And under show of pity to abuse; To rise upon the ruins of their brothers, And seek their own by robbing praise from others, The virtues are of that perfidious race. No worth, no valour, no respect of place, Of age, or law--bridle of modesty, No tie of love, or blood, nor memory Of good received; nothing's so venerable, Sacred, or just, that is inviolable By that vast thirst of riches, and desire Unquenchable of still ascending higher. Now I, not fearing, since I meant not ill, And in court-craft not having any skill, Wearing my thoughts charactered on my brow, And a glass window in my heart--judge thou How open and how fair a mark my heart Lay to their envy's unsuspected dart. FANSHAWE's _Trans. of Pastor Fido._[36]