To Lucasta, From Prison - Poem by Richard Lovelace
Long in thy shackels, liberty
I ask not from these walls, but thee;
Left for awhile anothers bride,
To fancy all the world beside.
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.
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 lov'd so ev'rywhere,
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 parliment
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!
Comments about To Lucasta, From Prison by Richard Lovelace
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Mary Elizabeth Frye
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You