I have been studying, how to compare
&plquo;This prison, where I live, unto the world;
&plquo;And, for because the world is populous,
&plquo;And here is not a creature but my self,
&plquo;I cannot do it; yet I'll hammer on't.
&plquo;My brain I'll prove the female to my soul,
-- 88 --
&plquo;My soul, the father; and these two beget
&plquo;A generation of still-breeding thoughts;
&plquo;And these same thoughts people this little world;
&plquo;In humour, like the people of this world,
&plquo;For no thought is contented.&prquo; The better sort,
(As thoughts, of things divine,) are intermixt
With scruples, and do set the word it self
Against the word; as thus; Come, little ones; and then again,
It is as hard to come, as for a Camel
To thread the postern of a needle's eye.
Thoughts, tending to ambition, they do plot
Unlikely wonders; how these vain weak nails
May tear a passage through the flinty ribs
Of this hard world, my ragged prison-walls:
And, for they cannot, die in their own pride.
Thoughts tending to Content, flatter themselves,
&plquo;That they are not the first of fortune's slaves,
&plquo;And shall not be the last: (Like silly beggars,
&plquo;Who, sitting in the Stocks, refuge their shame
&plquo;That many have, and others must sit there;)
&plquo;And, in this thought, they find a kind of ease,
&plquo;Bearing their own misfortune on the back
&plquo;Of such as have before endur'd the like.
&plquo;Thus play I, in one prison, many people,
&plquo;And none contented. Sometimes am I King,
&plquo;Then treason makes me wish my self a beggar,
&plquo;And so I am. Then crushing penury
&plquo;Persuades me, I was better when a King;
&plquo;Then am I king'd again; and by and by,
&plquo;Think, that I am unking'd by Bolingbroke,
&plquo;And straight am nothing—but what-e'er I am,
&plquo;Nor I, nor any man, that but man is,
&plquo;With nothing shall be pleas'd, till he be eas'd
&plquo;With being nothing—Musick do I hear?&prquo;
[Musick.
Ha, ha; keep time: how sow'r sweet musick is,
When time is broke, and no proportion kept?
So is it in the musick of mens' lives.
-- 89 --
And here have I the daintiness of ear,
To check time broke in a disorder'd string;
But for the concord of my state and time,
Had not an ear to hear my true time broke:
I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.
For now hath time made me his numbring clock:
My thoughts are minutes; and with sighs they jar,
Their watches to mine eyes the outward watch;
Whereto my finger, like a dial's point,
Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears.
Now, Sir, the sounds, that tell what hour it is,
Are clamorous groans, that strike upon my heart,
Which is the bell; so sighs, and tears, and groans,
Shew minutes, hours, and times—O, but my time
Runs posting on, in Bolingbroke's proud joy,
While I stand fooling here, his jack o'th' clock.
This musick mads me, let it sound no more;
For though it have help'd mad men to their wits,
In me, it seems, it will make wise men mad.
Yet blessing on his heart, that gives it me!
For 'tis a sign of love; and love to Richard
Is a strange brooch, 2 notein this all-hating world.
