Prison-pietie, or, Meditations divine and moral digested into poetical heads, on mixt and various subjects : whereunto is added a panegyrick to the right reverend, and most nobly descended, Henry Lord Bishop of London / by Samuel Speed ...

¶ Advice to Prisoners.

A Prison is a Cage of certain Cares, Whose Birds sing tunes of Discords and Despairs. So sares it in this fickle World; Man's like a Foot-ball toss'd and hurl'd: Even the Poor and honest Prisoners lie Like silver Swans, to sing their last, and die.

But what's a Prison when the Soul is free? A Jayl is but the World's Epitome: There ye contemplate how to lie I'th'Grave, before ye come to die; Whilst others heaping up their stores of Pelf, Have no more land, when dead, than you your self.

Consider, there are thousands are so low, That they'd be glad to be as ye are now. Your want of Liberty's a Rod To scourge you neerer to your God. Thus Providence to Prisoners is most kinde, Their eyes to open, leaving others blinde.

What's your Confinement but a certain Rule That leads to Happiness, Afflictions School? To know no sorrow, is no more Than to be equal with a Boar. A Prison is an honourable Jayl, When a cleer Conscience is the Pris'ners Bayl.

Let Reason be your Vertue and your Guide; Impatience will but make your Wounds more wide, If any be afflicted, pray: It is to sorrows an allay. Is any merry? let this be his Psalm; Strike harder, Fate, for every Bruise is Balm.

Since by misfortunes it is so decreed, That ye should all things (but a Prison) need, Grieve not at sorrows come to day, To morrow they may pass away. To be dejected is but to deprive Your selves of finding out a means to thrive.

If you're despised, pity those poor Elves That laugh at you before they know themselves, You have paid dear to know your Doom; To morrow theirs perhaps may come. He that can glory in his large Estate, Is but a subject (as your self) to Fate.

Happy's that Pris'ner that can live above The reach of Malice, or intrigues of Love. There's no light object to pervert The candour of an upright heart. Those Iron-bars that do your bodies hold, Are far less burthensom than Chains of Gold.

Where Care will help, there have a careful heart; Where Care will not, ne're act a foolish part: For all the help that Care can do, Is but to make one Sorrow two. Pine not with Care, but modestly be jolly: To be more wretched than ye need, is folly.