Classic Poem

Your late Disgrace, is but the Court's Disgrace,
As its false Accusation, but your Praise;
Your Sufferings, which you so bravely bear,
The Punishments of your Accusers are,
Which show their Spight, you more contemn, than fear;
Us of the Court's Faults, not of yours, convince,
Since best Convictions of your Innocence;
Your Punishment, thus is the State's Offence;
So well Ill Fortune is now born by you,
That you by bearing it, above it grow,
Who no Constraint i'th' Prison undergo;
Since in it, your Free Heart, aspiring Mind,
No more can, than your Genius, be confin'd;
Your Liberty of Thought, there's no Pow'r can,
To Antique Custom, or Dull Form restrain;
So, tho' now you are, by the Court immur'd,
Your Censure must be by it still endur'd,
You are from that, that not from you secur'd;
You bear your late Disgrace, so Hon'rably,
Your Proud Foes grutch you, your Adversity;
Thus in your Prison now, you grow but more
Vain Courtiers Envy, than you were before;
Who rage to think, you turn their Spight to Sport,
Scorning Court-Pity, pity more the Court,
Which now has parted with its best Support;
Less at your Peril, than the Sinking State,
Which you, its Prop, from it does separate;
So that the Mad Court you may pity now,
The more, the less that it does pity you;
Where, ev'n the Loosest Men are Pris'ners more,
To Tyrant-Passions, than you, in the Tow'r ;
Where most are Pris'ners to their narrow Souls,
Where still their Fear, their Liberty controuls;
Where Reason, by Man's Int'rest, is confin'd,
He shut up in his Little-Ease, his Mind,
As more t'enlarge still his Desires inclin'd;
Where Men, Love's Chains, Ties of False Honour too,
Bind up to Forms, and Ceremony so,
That they give up their Sense or Liberty,
To live, Proud Volunteers in Slavery,
More to their Trouble, Pains, and Infamy;
Where ev'n the most Unruly Libertine,
In Quest of Freedom, does himself confine;
In's Pride a Prince, and yet his Passions Slave,
Which him a Pris'ner, in his Loosness, have;
To Love, Ambition, or strait Avarice,
A Bond-Slave, or, to some less Tyrant-Vice;
Or, to the curst Old Gaoler, Custom too,
Which, ev'n in Prison, cannot Fetter you;
You, though a Pris'ner, can your self release,
From Custom only, the Fool's Little-Ease,
And the World's worst sort of Captivity,
Which makes us Free-Will quit, for Slavery;
Our Sense renounce, but to comply with those,
Who on our Reason wou'd their Wills impose;
The Sensless Many, who we know are Fools,
Live more Irregularly too by Rules;
But since no Custom you to Rules can bind,
Your Thought's free, tho' your Body be confin'd,
Your Prison's but the Enlargement of your Mind;
And makes your undisturb'd Thoughts, now, more free,
Than they, when you your Freedom had, cou'd be;
Since with Love, or Ambition, you were still
Abroad, kept from your Free Thoughts, or Free Will;
So you have Liberty, by Loss of it,
Of your Confining Visitors are quit;
Who, when you were at Liberty, did come,
With Visits, to confine you more at Home;
Now you from False-Friends are, in Prison, free,
Who Friends in Prison, never care to see;
You there are now but more at Liberty,
To keep the Best Sort of all Company,
Your own; which was impossible for you,
When you Abroad were, undisturb'd, to do;
Your Life, which was the Public's, is your own,
Now but employ'd, to please your self alone;
So by your Prison, freer are you grown.