Since Then None Of These Can Be
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.
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.
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 ?
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.
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.
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 ?
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 ?
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 :
But not a Reformation so,
As to reforme were to ore’throw ;
Like Watches by unskilfull men
Disjoynted, and set ill againe.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Richard Lovelace : To Lucasta, from Prison — An Epode.
