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To Lucasta From Prison An Epode

                    I.

Long in thy shackels, liberty

I ask not from these walls, but thee;

Left for awhile anothers bride,

To fancy all the world beside.

                    II.

Yet e're I doe begin to love,

See, how I all my objects prove;

Then my free soule to that confine,

'Twere possible I might call mine.

II.

First I would be in love with

CE,

And her rich swelling breasts increase;

But how, alas! how may that be,

Despising earth, she will love me?

                    IV.

Faine would I be in love with

AR,

As my deare just avenging star;

But War is lov'd so ev'rywhere,

Ev'n he disdaines a lodging here.

                    V.

Thee and thy wounds I would bemoane,

Faire thorough-shot

ON;

But he lives only that kills thee,

And who so bindes thy hands, is free.

                    VI.

I would love a

NT

As a maine prop from Heav'n sent;

But ah! who's he, that would be wedded

To th' fairest body that's beheaded?

II.

Next would I court my

TY,

And then my birth-right,

TY;

But can that be, when it is knowne,

There's nothing you can call your owne?

II.

A

ON I would have,

As for our griefes a

NE salve;

That is, a cleansing of each wheele

Of state, that yet some rust doth feele.

                    IX.

But not a reformation so,

As to reforme were to ore'throw,

Like watches by unskilfull men

Disjoynted, and set ill againe.

                    X.

The

CK

TH 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.

                    XI.

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?

II.

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.

II.

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.

IV.

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!

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Richard Lovelace

Richard Lovelace (9 December 1617 – 1657) was an English poet in the seventeenth century. He was a cavalier poet who fought on behalf of the kin…

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