Loyal poems and satyrs upon the times since the beginning of the Salamanca plot written by several hands ; collected by M.T.

A PARADOX Against Liberty, Written by the Lords, during their Imprisonment in the Tower.

A Prison, or the Isle, are much the same; They onely differ in Conceit and Name. As Art the first, Nature Immures the last; Onely i'th' larger Mold her Figure's cast. All Islanders are in a Prison pent, And none at large, not those o'th' Continent. Each Mariner's a Prisoner in his Bark. The living World was prison'd in the Ark. And though it be abroad adays; the Light Still lodges in the Prison of black Night. The Sea it self, is to its bounds confin'd, And Aeolus in Caves shuts up the wind: Nothing in nature has such vast Extent, But is imprison'd in its Element.

The Fish in watry Dungeons are inclos'd; Men, Beasts, and Birds, to Earth and Ayr dispos'd. If to enlarge their narrow bounds, they strive, The fatal freedom rarely they survive. And as with them, we hope with Us 'twill be, When from their Prisons took, Death sets them free, Man can no more a native freedome boast; That Jewel ne're was found, since first 'twas lost. 'Twas then transported to the Stygian Coast. But still there's something which we do esteem, Onely because 'tis like the polisht Gem, And this we Feedome call; its credit grows From a false stamp, the guilded outside shows: Which avaritious Man attempts to get, Cheated and ruin'd with the Counterfeit. Like Children, Soapy-Bubbles they pursue, And the santastick Vision, take for true; But whilst they think bright forms they do enmbrace Ixion-like, they find a cloud i'th' place. Consent of Crowds, exceeding credit brings, And seems to slamp Truths Image on false thing Not what's a real good, but what does seem, Still shares the blind and popular esteem. Whilst Sense and sancy over-rule their choice, And Reason in th' Election has no voice. But Souls in vain have Reasons Attribute, If to the Rule, they cannot Sense submit. Hence the Heriock mind make; no complaint, But freedom does Enjoy, even in restraint.

When Chains and Fetters do his Body bind, He then appears more free, and less confin'd. Discord and Care, which do distract him here, In durance take their leave and come not there. Falfe Friends and Flatt'rers, then, take last adieu, Who often swore how faithful and how true, Things their dishonest bosoms never knew. These, like the Swallows, in cold weather flye; A Summers fortune onely draws them nigh. Elatt'rers a sort of fatal Suckers be, Which draw the Sap 'till they destroy the Tree. Fair Vertue to their Obticks when they bring, Seems a deform'd and antiquated thing. Vice they commend, whilst Vertue is despis'd; The blackest by these Negroes most are pris'd. These slaves to Vice, do hug so hard and long, Till like the o'refond Ape, they kill their Young. Ambition in the Mind's a Feverish Thirst, Which is by drinking dryer than at First; And these will feed the humour till it burst. When Parasites the Arbiters are made, They'l place the Garland on a Beadlam's head. Riot, Exces, and Pleasure car' the Day, And Lust (the worst of Tyrants) bears the sway, At whose black Throne they blind Allegiance pay. Morose and dull they do account the Grave; And the Meek-man, fit only for a Slave: The Humble of a Nature poor and base; The Chast, sprung from a dull insipid Race; And Temperance, a Gallant's cheif disgrace.

In Vertues garb, the great Mans Vice they dress, Giving it Names which sound of Worthiness. They call his Pride the Grandeur of his mind, And for his lust the Name they have design'd Is a complaisant Ayr, that makes men kind. Profaneness is his Wit; and his Excess By a Gay janty Humour they express; All his Debauches too must be no less. Thus they lap ruin up, and guild our Crimes; But Vice destroys, like Ivy, where it climbs. In us the dangrous state th' Ambitious see Of Greatness, Avarice, and Flatterie. Gifts, Honour, Office, Greatness, Grace of Kings, Raise the Ambitious upon treach'rous wings. Till from the mighty heights they giddy grow, And fall into the Ruin lyes below. If the first fail, which do support our state, The last our Fall serve to percipitate. This with too dear Experience we have bought, And learnt a Lesson, which too late was taught. Prosperity's a Drug, that must be ta'ne Corrected, (Opium like) or else 'tis bane. A more Lethargick quality's in her, Than ever yet in Opium did appear. her fatal Poyson to the Mind she sends, And uncorrect, in sure destruction ends. Whilst in the way her guilded snares she lays, Easie and credulous Man she soon betrays; Who sees her Roses and her Lilies here, But her concealed Snakes doth never fear.

Prosperity's repasts puff up the Mind With unsubstantial and unwholesome wind. 'Tis a Hault-Goust which Epicures do use, And choicer Viands squeamishly refuse. But when Affliction moulds your dayly bread, 'Tis then the staff of Life with which she's fed. Affliction (like the river Nile) bestows Her fruitful blessings wheresoe'er she flows: And if when she withdraws, strange Serpents rise, Not in her streams, but in the Soyl, it lyes. Which (like the great Apollo) she strikes dead, By the same Influence they first were bred, If she return, and shew her hidden head. Great Minds (like the victorious palms) are wont Under the Weights of Fortune more to mount. Strongly supprest, and hurl'd upon the ground, Fill'd with sublimer thoughts they more rebound. Still careless whether Fortune smile or frown, Whether she give, or take away a Crown. Our Walls are Tyded, and by that we know She always ebbs, when she doth leave to flow, And constant in Inconstancy does grow. Make an attacque all Injuries that can, They fall like Waves beneath a rising Swan. Freed and secur'd from all discordant Care, Here we our heads above the billows bear, Till from our shoulders they transplanted are. And from their summits, with dum gapes proclaim, Of a Quincumvirat the trait'rous shame,

But during all this Storm, we still do find An Anchor and a Haven in our Mind, Not beaten now, though then expos'd to th' Wind. As Nightingals, our bosom we expose, And sing, environ'd with the sharpest woes. Degraded from vain Honour, here we grow More great and high, as Trees by lopping do. Honour's like froth in each Man's glass of Beer; 'Tis least of use, though topmost it appear. The common Vouchee for ill acts she's grown; It and Religion all our Mischifs own. She raigns in Youth with an unruly heat, And in her falser Mirror shews them Great, Till Age and Time convince them of the Cheat. Rash heads approve what sober Men despise, And the fantastict Garb offends the Wise; She rarely now is seen, but in Diguise. True Honour and plain Honesty's the same; From various Dwellings, comes the various Name: For whilst she gay in Courts, she's Honour there, But Honesty with us in Durance here. In differing States, most things have difference: What pleas'd this day, the next offends the Prince. The Prosperous loath what the Afflicted love; Prisoners abhor, what free, they did approve. And still there's power in each Man choice, to make Himself content, if he can wisely take, And think his own (though hard) a happy Stake. In ev'ry state does some Contentment dwell, And here we sind a Palace in a Cell.

Good is good ev'ry where, and ev'ry thing, And good can of it self no Evil bring. All good's a raye of the first Light alone; When Ill approaches, only that's our own. Vertue's not gain'd by spending of our days In pleasure, Princes Courts, or from their Rays. At Vertue's Coast by Travel we arrive, And so by Travel Vertue's kept alive. She dwindles if she want due Exercise; But us'd, grows brighter, and still multiplies. Vertue increases, Snow-ball-like, rowl'd on: A lazy Vertue's next of kin to None. Pris'ners indeed they be, that do lay by At once their Fredom and their Industry. If Men turn Drones within these hony'd Hyves, It lyes i'th' Pris'ner's heart, and not his Gyves. The good grows better here, the bad grows worse; The Spur that makes this go, does jade that Horse. Hence the great'st part are male-content and sad, Since that the Good are fewer than the bad. A Bliss that springs from penetential joy, Is the Minds balsome in each sharp Annoy; Fools only their own Comforts do destroy. To this Retrement we can freely go; 'Tis the great'st pace of Majesty below: Or stirring out imports the World to know. The Goaler's Centinel to guard our Doors, And Castles are contain'd i'th' narrow Floors. More happy and more safe, secur'd from Foes, Than those whom Troops of Enemies enclose.

Much more as Pris'ners, our high bliss we boast, Being secur'd from such a mighty Hoast Gf deadly Foes, so fierce with wrath and might, Our selves so feeble, and unfit to fight 'Gainst the black band of vicious and Profane, Who Thousands do undo in each Campain. In the Assault, we seldome brook the Field. But flye like Hares, or else like Cowards yield. Yet this the World esteems an hard estate, And Us, who feel it, count unfortunate. Shew then, Philosophy! the state wherein Such Safety, and so much Content is seen. Wherein less rugged or steep hind'rance lyes, T'obstruct the Path unto Perfection's prize. The useful Rod's only bound up for this, To whip and lash the Childish on to Bliss; Who sullenly refuse the Rod to kiss, And so the Blessing in the Whipping miss. Some, like the Whale, only design'd to play In fruteless pleasures, drive the flying day; As Boys with Clackers drive the Lent away. Whilst here, we stop the hours of time, that flyes, With Contemplation's nobler Exercise. Maurge all Goals, think we e're long must dye, And then enjoy an endless Liberty; Death will redeem from long Captivity. Man's Life's a Piece spun of a various Thred; In some 'tis fine, in some a courser Web. The Threads across, th' Occurrences of Fate, Cut early from the Loom by Death or late.

The Dread of Kings, Death, does not us dismay; To Dye's less than be Tantalis'd each day. What Man complains, with Weariness opprest, That Night is come, the only Time to Rest?