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           1679
        
      
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         A55745
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         ESTC R5967
         13087468
         ocm 13087468
         97315
         
           
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             A paradox against liberty written by the Lords, during their imprisonment in the Tower a poem.
             Shaftesbury, Anthony Ashley Cooper, Earl of, 1621-1683.
             Buckingham, George Villiers, Duke of, 1628-1687.
             Salisbury, James Cecil, Earl of, d. 1683.
             Wharton, Philip Wharton, Baron, 1613-1696.
          
           [2], 2 p.
           
             [s.n.],
             Londn [sic] :
             1679.
          
           
             Printed in double columns.
             The Lords are Shaftesbury, Buckingham, Salisbury, and Wharton.
             Reproduction of original in Huntington Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           Liberty -- Anecdotes
        
      
    
     
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           A
           PARADOX
           Against
           LIBERTY
           VVritten
           by
           the
           Lords
           ,
           During
           their
           Imprisonment
           In
           the
           TOWER
           .
        
         
           A
           POEM
           .
        
         
           Contrahes
           Vento
           nimium
           secundo
           Turgida
           Vela
           .
        
         
         
           LONDN
           ,
           Printed
           in
           the
           Year
           .
           1679.
           
        
      
    
     
       
         
         
         
           A
           PARADOX
           AGAINST
           LIBERTY
           .
        
         
           
             A
             Prison
             ,
             or
             the
             Isle
             ,
             are
             much
             the
             same
             ;
          
           
             They
             onely
             differ
             in
             Conceit
             and
             Name
             .
          
           
             As
             Art
             the
             first
             ,
             Nature
             Immures
             the
             last
             ;
          
           
             Onely
             i'
             th'
             larger
             Mold
             her
             Figure
             's
             cast
             .
          
           
             All
             Islanders
             are
             in
             Prison
             pent
             ,
          
           
             And
             none
             at
             large
             ,
             not
             those
             o'
             th'
             Continent
             .
          
           
             Each
             Mariner's
             a
             Prisoner
             in
             his
             Bark
             .
          
           
             The
             living
             World
             was
             prison'd
             in
             the
             Ark.
          
           
             And
             though
             it
             be
             abroad
             adayes
             ,
             the
             Light
          
           
             Still
             lodges
             in
             the
             prison
             of
             black
             Night
             .
          
           
             The
             Sea
             it self
             ,
             is
             to
             its
             bounds
             confin'd
             .
          
           
             And
             Aeolus
             in
             Caves
             shuts
             up
             the
             wind
             .
          
           
             Nothing
             in
             Nature
             has
             such
             vast
             Extent
             ,
          
           
             But
             is
             imprison'd
             in
             its
             Element
             .
          
           
             The
             Fish
             ,
             in
             watry
             Dungeons
             are
             inclos'd
             ;
          
           
             Men
             ,
             Beasts
             ,
             and
             Birds
             ,
             to
             Earth
             and
             Air
             dispos'd
             .
          
           
             If
             to
             enlarge
             their
             narrow
             bounds
             ,
             they
             strive
             ,
          
           
             The
             fatal
             freedom
             rarely
             they
             survive
             .
          
           
             And
             as
             with
             them
             ,
             we
             hope
             with
             us
             't
             will
             be
             ,
          
           
             When
             from
             their
             Prisons
             took
             ,
             Death
             sets
             them
             free
             .
          
           
             Man
             can
             no
             more
             a
             native
             freedom
             boast
             ;
          
           
             That
             Jewel
             ne're
             was
             found
             ,
             since
             first
             't
             was
             lost
             .
          
           
             'T
             was
             then
             transported
             to
             the
             Stygian
             Coast.
          
           
             But
             still
             there
             's
             something
             which
             we
             do
             esteem
             ,
          
           
             Onely
             because
             't
             is
             like
             the
             polisht
             Gemme
             ,
          
           
             And
             this
             we
             Freedom
             call
             ;
             its
             credit
             grows
          
           
             From
             a
             false
             stamp
             ,
             the
             guilded
             outside
             shows
             :
          
           
             Which
             avaritious
             Man
             attempts
             to
             get
             ,
          
           
             Cheated
             and
             ruin'd
             with
             the
             Counterfeit
             .
          
           
             Like
             Children
             ,
             Soapy-bubbles
             they
             pursue
             ,
          
           
             And
             the
             fantastick
             Vision
             ,
             take
             for
             true
             ;
          
           
             But
             whilst
             they
             think
             bright
             forms
             they
             do
             embrace
             ,
          
           
             
             Ixion-like
             ,
             they
             find
             a
             cloud
             i'
             th'
             place
             ,
          
           
             Consent
             of
             Crowds
             ,
             exceeding
             credit
             brings
             ,
          
           
             And
             seems
             to
             stamp
             Truth
             's
             Image
             on
             false
             things
             .
          
           
             Not
             what
             's
             a
             real
             good
             ,
             but
             what
             does
             seem
             ,
          
           
             Still
             shares
             the
             blind
             and
             popular
             esteem
             .
          
           
             Whilst
             Sense
             and
             Fancy
             over-rule
             their
             choice
             ,
          
           
             And
             Reason
             in
             th'
             Election
             has
             no
             voice
             .
          
           
             But
             Souls
             in
             vain
             have
             Reason's
             Attribute
             ,
          
           
             If
             to
             their
             Rule
             ,
             they
             cannot
             Sense
             submit
             ▪
          
           
             Hence
             the
             Heroick
             mind
             makes
             no
             complaint
             ,
          
           
             But
             freedom
             does
             enjoy
             ,
             even
             in
             restraint
             .
          
           
             When
             Chains
             and
             Fetters
             do
             his
             Body
             bind
             ,
          
           
             He
             then
             appears
             more
             free
             ,
             and
             less
             confin'd
             .
          
           
             Discord
             and
             Care
             ,
             which
             do
             distract
             him
             here
             ,
          
           
             In
             durance
             take
             their
             leave
             ,
             and
             come
             not
             there
             .
          
           
             False
             Friends
             and
             Flatt'rers
             ,
             then
             ,
             take
             last
             adieu
             ,
          
           
             Who
             often
             swore
             how
             faithful
             and
             how
             tue
             ,
          
           
             Things
             their
             dishonest
             bosoms
             never
             knew
             .
          
           
             These
             ,
             like
             the
             Swallows
             ,
             in
             cold
             weather
             flye
             ;
          
           
             A
             Summers
             fortune
             only
             draws
             them
             nigh
             .
          
           
             Flatt'rers
             a
             sort
             of
             fatal
             Suckers
             be
             ,
          
           
             Which
             draw
             the
             Sap
             'till
             they
             destroy
             the
             Tree
             .
          
           
             Fair
             Vertue
             to
             their
             Opticks
             when
             they
             bring
             ,
          
           
             Seems
             a
             deform'd
             and
             antiquated
             thing
             ,
          
           
             Vice
             they
             commend
             ,
             whilst
             Vertue
             is
             despis'd
             ;
          
           
             The
             blackest
             by
             these
             Negroes
             most
             are
             pris'd
             .
          
           
             These
             slaves
             to
             Vice
             ,
             do
             hug
             so
             hard
             and
             long
             ;
          
           
             Till
             like
             the
             o'refond
             Ape
             ,
             they
             kill
             their
             Young.
          
           
             Ambition
             in
             the
             Mind
             's
             a
             Feverish
             Thirst
             ,
          
           
             Which
             is
             by
             drinking
             ,
             dryer
             than
             at
             first
             ;
          
           
             And
             these
             will
             feed
             the
             humour
             till
             it
             burst
             .
          
           
             When
             Parasites
             the
             Arbiters
             are
             made
             ,
          
           
             They
             'l
             place
             the
             Garland
             on
             a
             Bedlam's
             head
             .
          
           
             Riot
             ,
             Excess
             ,
             and
             Pleasure
             car
             '
             the
             Day
             ,
          
           
             And
             Lust
             (
             the
             worst
             of
             Tyrants
             )
             bears
             the
             sway
             ,
          
           
             At
             whose
             black
             Throne
             they
             blind
             Allegiance
             pay
             ,
          
           
             Morose
             and
             dull
             they
             do
             account
             the
             Grave
             ;
          
           
             And
             the
             Meek-man
             ,
             fit
             onely
             for
             a
             Slave
             :
          
           
             The
             Humble
             ,
             of
             a
             Nature
             poor
             and
             base
             ;
          
           
             The
             Chast
             ,
             sprung
             from
             a
             dull
             insipid
             Race
             ;
          
           
             And
             Temperance
             ,
             a
             Gallant
             's
             chief
             disgrace
             .
          
           
             In
             Vertues
             garb
             ,
             the
             great
             Mans
             Vice
             they
             dress
             ,
          
           
             Giving
             it
             Names
             which
             sound
             of
             Worthiness
             .
          
           
             They
             call
             his
             Pride
             the
             Grandeur
             of
             his
             Mind
             ,
          
           
             And
             for
             his
             Lust
             the
             Name
             they
             have
             design'd
          
           
             Is
             a
             complaisant
             Ayr
             ,
             that
             make
             men
             kind
             .
          
           
             Profaness
             is
             his
             Wit
             ;
             and
             his
             Excess
          
           
             By
             a
             Gay
             janty
             Humour
             they
             express
             ;
          
           
             All
             his
             Debauches
             too
             must
             be
             no
             less
             .
          
           
             Thus
             they
             lap
             Ruine
             up
             ,
             and
             guild
             our
             Crimes
             ;
          
           
             But
             Vice
             destroys
             like
             Ivy
             ,
             where
             it
             climbs
             .
          
           
             In
             us
             ,
             the
             dang'rous
             State
             th'
             Ambitious
             see
          
           
             Of
             Greatness
             ,
             Avarice
             ,
             and
             Flatterie
             .
          
           
             Gifts
             ,
             Honours
             ,
             Office
             ,
             Greatness
             ,
             Grace
             of
             Kings
             ;
          
           
             Raise
             the
             Ambitious
             upon
             Treach'rous
             wings
             ;
          
           
             'Till
             from
             the
             mighty
             heights
             they
             giddy
             grow
             ,
          
           
             And
             fall
             into
             the
             Ruine
             lyes
             below
             .
          
           
             If
             the
             first
             fall
             ,
             which
             do
             support
             our
             state
             ▪
          
           
             The
             last
             our
             Fall
             serve
             to
             precipitate
             .
          
           
             This
             with
             too
             dear
             Experience
             we
             have
             bought
             ▪
          
           
             And
             learnt
             a
             Lesson
             ,
             which
             too
             late
             was
             taught
             .
          
           
             Prosperity's
             a
             Drug
             ,
             that
             must
             be
             ta'ne
          
           
             Corrected
             (
             Opium
             like
             )
             or
             else
             't
             is
             bane
             .
          
           
             A
             more
             Lethargick
             quality's
             in
             her
             ,
          
           
             Than
             ever
             yet
             in
             Opium
             did
             appear
             .
          
           
             Her
             fatal
             Poyson
             to
             the
             Mind
             she
             sends
             ,
          
           
             And
             uncorrect
             ,
             in
             sure
             destruction
             ends
             ▪
          
           
           
             Whilst
             in
             the
             way
             her
             guilded
             shares
             she
             lays
             ,
          
           
             Easie
             and
             credulous
             Man
             she
             soon
             betrays
             ;
          
           
             Who
             sees
             her
             Roses
             and
             her
             Lillies
             here
             ,
          
           
             But
             her
             concealed
             Snakes
             doth
             never
             fear
             .
          
           
             Prosperity's
             repasts
             puff
             up
             the
             Mind
          
           
             With
             unsubstantial
             and
             unwholsome
             wind
             .
          
           
             'T
             is
             a
             Hault-Goust
             which
             Epicures
             do
             use
             ,
          
           
             And
             choicer
             Viands
             squeamishly
             refuse
             .
          
           
             But
             when
             Affliction
             moulds
             your
             daily
             bread
             ,
          
           
             'T
             is
             then
             the
             staff
             of
             Life
             with
             which
             she
             's
             fed
             .
          
           
             Affliction
             (
             like
             the
             River
             Nile
             )
             bestows
          
           
             Her
             fruitful
             blessings
             whereso'ere
             she
             flows
             :
          
           
             And
             if
             when
             she
             withdraws
             ,
             strange
             Serpents
             rise
             ,
          
           
             Not
             in
             her
             streams
             ,
             but
             in
             the
             Soyl
             ,
             it
             lyes
             .
          
           
             Which
             (
             like
             the
             great
             Apollo
             )
             she
             strikes
             dead
             ,
          
           
             By
             the
             same
             Influence
             they
             first
             were
             bred
             ,
          
           
             If
             she
             return
             ,
             and
             shew
             her
             hidden
             head
             .
          
           
             Great
             Minds
             (
             like
             the
             victorious
             Palms
             )
             are
             wont
          
           
             Under
             the
             Weights
             of
             Fortune
             more
             to
             mount
             .
          
           
             Strongly
             supprest
             ,
             and
             hurl'd
             upon
             the
             ground
             ,
          
           
             Fill'd
             with
             sublimer
             thoughts
             they
             more
             rebound
             .
          
           
             Still
             careless
             whether
             Fortune
             smile
             or
             frown
             ,
          
           
             Whether
             she
             give
             ,
             or
             take
             away
             a
             Crown
             .
          
           
             Our
             Walls
             are
             Tyded
             ,
             and
             by
             that
             we
             know
          
           
             She
             alwaies
             ebbs
             ,
             when
             she
             doth
             leave
             to
             flow
             ,
          
           
             And
             constant
             in
             Inconstancy
             does
             grow
             .
          
           
             Make
             an
             attacque
             all
             Injuries
             that
             can
             ,
          
           
             They
             fall
             like
             Waves
             beneath
             a
             rising
             Swan
             .
          
           
             Freed
             and
             secur'd
             from
             all
             discordant
             Care
             ,
          
           
             Here
             we
             our
             heads
             above
             the
             billows
             bear
             ,
          
           
             Till
             from
             our
             shoulders
             they
             transplanted
             are
             .
          
           
             And
             from
             their
             summits
             ,
             with
             dumb
             gapes
             proclaim
             ,
          
           
             Of
             a
             Quincumvirat
             the
             trait'rous
             shame
             .
          
           
             But
             during
             all
             this
             Storm
             ,
             we
             still
             do
             find
          
           
             An
             Anchor
             and
             a
             Haven
             in
             our
             Mind
             ,
          
           
             Not
             beaten
             now
             ,
             though
             then
             expos'd
             to
             th'
             Wind.
          
           
             As
             Nightingals
             ,
             our
             bosoms
             we
             expose
             ,
          
           
             And
             sing
             ,
             environ'd
             with
             the
             sharpest
             woes
             .
          
           
             Degraded
             from
             vain
             Honour
             ,
             here
             we
             grow
          
           
             More
             great
             and
             high
             ,
             as
             Trees
             by
             lopping
             do
             .
          
           
             Honour
             's
             like
             froth
             in
             each
             Man's
             glass
             of
             Beer
             ;
          
           
             'T
             is
             least
             of
             use
             ,
             though
             topmost
             it
             appear
             .
          
           
             The
             common
             Vouchee
             for
             ill
             acts
             she
             's
             grown
             ;
          
           
             It
             and
             Religion
             all
             our
             Mischiefs
             own
             .
          
           
             She
             raigns
             in
             Youth
             with
             an
             unruly
             heat
          
           
             And
             in
             her
             falser
             Mirror
             shews
             them
             Great
             ,
          
           
             Till
             Age
             and
             Time
             convince
             them
             of
             the
             Cheat.
          
           
             Rash
             heads
             approve
             what
             sober
             Men
             despise
             ,
          
           
             And
             the
             fantastick
             Garb
             offends
             the
             Wife
             ;
          
           
             She
             rarely
             now
             is
             seen
             ,
             but
             in
             Disguise
             .
          
           
             True
             Honour
             and
             plain
             Honesty
             's
             the
             same
             ;
          
           
             From
             various
             Dwellings
             ,
             comes
             the
             various
             Name
             :
          
           
             For
             whilst
             she
             's
             gay
             in
             Courts
             ,
             she
             's
             Honour
             there
             ,
          
           
             But
             Honesty
             with
             us
             in
             Durance
             here
             .
          
           
             In
             differing
             States
             ▪
             most
             things
             have
             difference
             :
          
           
             What
             pleas'd
             this
             day
             ,
             the
             next
             offends
             the
             Prince
             .
          
           
             The
             Prosperous
             loath
             what
             the
             Afflicted
             love
             ;
          
           
             Prisoners
             abhor
             ,
             what
             free
             ,
             they
             did
             approve
             .
          
           
             And
             still
             there
             's
             power
             in
             each
             Man's
             choice
             ,
             to
             make
          
           
             Himself
             content
             ,
             if
             he
             can
             wisely
             take
             ,
          
           
             And
             think
             his
             own
             (
             though
             hard
             )
             a
             happy
             Stake
          
           
             In
             ev'ry
             state
             does
             some
             Contentment
             dwell
             ,
          
           
             And
             here
             we
             find
             a
             Palace
             in
             a
             Cell
             .
          
           
             Good
             is
             good
             ev'ry
             where
             ,
             and
             ev'ry
             thing
             ,
          
           
             And
             Good
             can
             of
             it self
             no
             Evil
             bring
             .
          
           
             All
             Good
             's
             a
             raye
             of
             the
             first
             Light
             alone
             ;
          
           
             When
             Ill
             approaches
             ;
             only
             that
             's
             our
             own
             .
          
           
             Vertue
             's
             not
             gain'd
             by
             spending
             of
             our
             days
          
           
             In
             pleasure
             ,
             Princes
             Courts
             ,
             or
             from
             their
             Rays
             .
          
           
             At
             Vertue
             's
             Coast
             by
             Travel
             we
             arrive
             ,
          
           
             And
             so
             by
             Travel
             Vertue
             's
             kept
             alive
             .
          
           
             She
             dwindles
             if
             she
             want
             due
             Exercise
             ;
          
           
             But
             us'd
             ,
             grows
             brighter
             ,
             and
             still
             multiplies
             .
          
           
             Vertue
             increases
             Snow-ball-like
             ,
             rowl'd
             on
             :
          
           
             A
             lazy
             Vertue
             's
             next
             of
             kin
             to
             None
             .
          
           
             Pris'ners
             indeed
             they
             be
             ,
             that
             do
             lay
             by
          
           
             At
             once
             their
             Freedom
             and
             their
             Industry
             .
          
           
             If
             Men
             turn
             Drones
             within
             these
             hony'd
             Hyves
             ,
          
           
             It
             lyes
             i'
             th'
             Pris'ner's
             heart
             ,
             and
             not
             his
             Gyves
             .
          
           
             The
             Good
             grow
             better
             here
             ,
             the
             Bad
             grow
             worse
             ;
          
           
             The
             Spur
             that
             makes
             this
             go
             ,
             does
             jade
             that
             Horse
             ▪
          
           
             Hence
             the
             great'st
             part
             are
             male-content
             and
             sad
             ,
          
           
             Since
             that
             the
             Good
             are
             fewer
             than
             the
             Bad.
          
           
             A
             Bliss
             that
             springs
             from
             penitential
             joy
             ,
          
           
             Is
             the
             Minds
             balsome
             in
             each
             sharp
             Annoy
             ;
          
           
             Fools
             only
             their
             own
             Comforts
             do
             destroy
             ▪
          
           
             To
             this
             Retirement
             we
             can
             freely
             go
             ;
          
           
             'T
             is
             the
             great'st
             pace
             of
             Majesty
             below
             :
          
           
             Our
             stirring
             out
             imports
             the
             World
             to
             know
             .
          
           
             The
             Goalers
             Centinel
             to
             guard
             our
             Doors
             ,
          
           
             And
             Castles
             are
             contain'd
             i'
             th'
             narrow
             Floors
             .
          
           
             More
             happy
             and
             more
             safe
             ,
             secur'd
             from
             Foes
             ,
          
           
             Than
             those
             whom
             Troops
             of
             Enemies
             enclose
             .
          
           
             Much
             more
             as
             Pris'ners
             ,
             our
             high
             bliss
             we
             boast
             ,
          
           
             Being
             secur'd
             from
             such
             a
             mighty
             Hoast
          
           
             Of
             deadly
             Foes
             ,
             so
             fierce
             with
             wrath
             and
             might
             ,
          
           
             Our selves
             so
             feeble
             ,
             and
             unfit
             to
             fight
          
           
             'Gainst
             the
             black
             band
             of
             Vicious
             and
             Profane
             ,
          
           
             Who
             Thousands
             do
             undo
             in
             each
             Campain
             .
          
           
             In
             the
             Assault
             ,
             we
             seldom
             brook
             the
             Field
             ,
          
           
             But
             flye
             like
             Hares
             ,
             or
             else
             like
             Cowards
             yield
             .
          
           
             Yet
             this
             the
             World
             esteems
             an
             hard
             estate
             ,
          
           
             And
             Us
             ,
             who
             feel
             it
             ,
             count
             unfortunate
             .
          
           
             Shew
             then
             ,
             Philosophy
             !
             the
             state
             wherein
          
           
             Such
             Safety
             ,
             and
             so
             much
             Content
             is
             seen
             .
          
           
             Wherein
             less
             rugged
             or
             steep
             hind'rance
             lyes
             ,
          
           
             T'
             obstruct
             the
             Path
             unto
             Perfection's
             prize
          
           
             The
             useful
             Rod's
             only
             bound
             up
             for
             this
             ,
          
           
             To
             whip
             and
             lash
             the
             Childish
             on
             to
             Bliss
             ;
          
           
             Who
             sullenly
             refuse
             the
             Rod
             to
             kiss
             ,
          
           
             And
             so
             the
             Blessing
             in
             the
             Whipping
             miss
             .
          
           
             Some
             ,
             like
             the
             Whale
             ,
             only
             design'd
             to
             play
          
           
             In
             fruitless
             pleasures
             ,
             drive
             the
             flying
             day
             ;
          
           
             As
             Boys
             with
             Clackers
             drive
             the
             Lent
             away
             ,
          
           
             Whilst
             here
             ,
             we
             stop
             the
             hours
             of
             Time
             ,
             that
             flyes
             ,
          
           
             With
             Contemplation's
             nobler
             Exercise
             .
          
           
             Maugre
             all
             Goals
             ,
             think
             we
             e're
             long
             must
             dye
             ,
          
           
             And
             then
             enjoy
             an
             endless
             Liberty
             ;
          
           
             Death
             will
             redeem
             from
             long
             Captivity
             .
          
           
             Man's
             Life
             's
             a
             Piece
             spun
             of
             a
             various
             Thred
             ;
          
           
             In
             some
             't
             is
             fine
             ,
             in
             ●ome
             a
             courser
             Web.
          
           
             The
             Threds
             across
             ,
             th'
             Occurrences
             of
             Fate
             ,
          
           
             Cut
             early
             from
             the
             Loom
             by
             Death
             ,
             or
             late
             ▪
          
           
             The
             Dread
             of
             Kings
             ,
             Death
             ,
             does
             not
             us
             dismay
             ;
          
           
             To
             Dye's
             less
             ,
             than
             be
             Tantaliz'd
             each
             day
             .
          
           
             What
             Man
             complains
             ,
             with
             Weariness
             opprest
             ▪
          
           
             That
             Night
             is
             come
             ,
             the
             only
             Time
             to
             Rest
             ?
          
        
         
           FINIS
           .
        
      
    
     
  

