Richard Lovelace

To Lucasta. From Prison

                       An Epode

 
                            I
 
LONG in thy Shackels, liberty,
   I ask not from these walls, but thee ;
Left for a while anothers Bride,
   To fancy all the world beside.
 
                            II
 
Yet e’re I do begin to love,
   See!  How I all my objects prove ;
Then my free Soule to that confine,
   'Twere possible I might call mine.
 
                            III
 
First I would be in love with Peace,
   And her rich swelling breasts increase ;
But how alas!  how may that be,
   Despising Earth, she will love me?
 
                            IV
 
Faine would I be in love with War,
   As my deare Just avenging star ;
But War is loved so ev’ry where,
   Ev’n He disdaines a Lodging here.
 
                            V
 
Thee and thy wounds I would bemoane
   Faire thorough—shot Religion ;
But he lives only that kills thee,
   And who so bindes thy hands, is free.
 
                            VI
 
I would love a Parliament
   As a maine Prop from Heav’n sent ;
But ah!  Who’s he that would be wedded
   To th’ fairest body that’s beheaded?
 
                            VII
 
Next would I court my Liberty,
   And then my Birth—right, Property ;
But can that be, when it is knowne
   There’s nothing you can call your owne?
 
                            VIII
 
A Reformation I would have,
   As for our griefes a Sov’raigne salve ;
That is, a cleansing of each wheele
   Of State, that yet some rust doth feele:
 
                            IX
 
But not a Reformation so,
   As to reforme were to ore’throw ;
Like Watches by unskilfull men
   Disjoynted, and set ill againe.
 
                            X
 
The Publick Faith I would adore,
   But she is banke—rupt of her store ;
Nor how to trust her can I see,
   For she that couzens all, must me.
 
                            XI
 
Since then none of these can be
   Fit objects for my Love and me ;
What then remaines, but th’ only spring
   Of all our loves and joyes? The KING.
 
                           XII
 
He who being the whole Ball
   Of Day on Earth, lends it to all ;
When seeking to ecclipse his right,
   Blinded, we stand in our owne light.
 
                           XIII
 
And now an universall mist
   Of Error is spread or’e each breast,
With such a fury edg’d, as is
   Not found in th’ inwards of th’ Abysse.
 
                           XIV
 
Oh from thy glorious Starry Waine
   Dispense on me one sacred Beame
To light me where I soone may see
   How to serve you, and you trust me.
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