The jail contains all arts in act and trust; ' ' Should you but hanker after surgeon’s skill, ’Twill draw the spoiled blood from your veins adust. Next there is something in itself that will Make you right eloquent, a bold brave spark, ' ' Big with high-soaring thoughts for good and ill. Blessed is the man who lies in dungeon dark, Languishing many a month, then takes his flight Of war, truce, peace he knows, and tells the mark. ' 'Needs be that all things turn to his delight; The jail has crammed his brains so full of wit, They’ll dance no morris to upset the wight. Perchance thou’lt urge: “Think how thy life did flit; Nor is it true the jail can teach thee lore, To fill thy breast and heart with strength of it!” Nay, for myself I’ll ever praise it more: Yet would I like one law passed-that the man Whose acts deserve it should not scape this score. Whoso hath gotten the poor folk in ban, I’d make him learn those lessons of the jail; For then he’d know all a good ruler can: He’d act like men who weigh by reason’s scale, Nor dare to swerve from truth and right aside, Nor would confusion in the realm prevail. While I was bound in prison to abide, Foison of priests, friars, soldiers I could see; But those who best deserved it least I spied. Ah! could you know what rage came over me, When for such rogues the jail relaxed her hold! This makes one weep that one was born to be! I’ll add no more. Now I’m become fine gold, Such gold as none flings lightly to the wind, Fit for the best work eyes shall e’er behold. Another point hath passed into my mind, Which I’ve not told thee, Luca; where I wrote, Was in the book of one our kith and kind. [3] There down the margins I was wont to note Each torment grim that crushed me like a vice: The paste my hurrying thoughts could hardly float. To make an O, I dipped the splinter thrice In that thick mud; worse woe could scarcely grind Spirits in hell debarred from Paradise. Seeing I’m not the first by fraud confined, This I’ll omit; and once more seek the cell Wherein I rack for rage both heart and mind. I praise it more than other tongues will tell; And, for advice to such as do not know, Swear that without it none can labour well. Yet oh! for one like Him I learned but now, Who’d cry to me as by Bethesda’s shore: Take thy clothes, Benvenuto, rise and go! Credo I’d sing, Salve reginas pour And Paternosters; alms I’d then bestow Morn after morn on blind folk, lame, and poor.