Tixall Poetry.
19
A Present of
Bands and Cuffes,
Your token did not half so straightly bind
Bands to my neck, as feters to my mind;
Nor could those manicles my hand restraine
So strongly as they did my hart inchaine.
Oh, strange and unconseaved tirany,
With gifts to rob one of his libertye!
To bid his conquered neck and shoulders sweat
Under the baner of his owne defeat;
And make your prisoner on his armes to weare
The trophys of the victorye you beare.
Ah, now I find the cause why still you did
So smile to prick the lawne, or cut the thrid:—
Bands to my neck, as feters to my mind;
Nor could those manicles my hand restraine
So strongly as they did my hart inchaine.
Oh, strange and unconseaved tirany,
With gifts to rob one of his libertye!
To bid his conquered neck and shoulders sweat
Under the baner of his owne defeat;
And make your prisoner on his armes to weare
The trophys of the victorye you beare.
Ah, now I find the cause why still you did
So smile to prick the lawne, or cut the thrid:—
