The Prisoner

To fields of green and tufted pines. Where Nature plans her bold designs, While little souls for pleasure stray, I find content, an easier way.

Once, like the rest in folly's train, A jail I deem'd the worst of pain; But reason says, and say we can, 'Tis wisdom's walk, the school for man.

Your men of sense take half an age To moralize from Plato's page; But TRUTH, that guides my pen, can tell, A sheriff's writ will do as well.

The pitying eye, that upwards cast, Laments our daily, dull repast, That deems our time is spent in care, Should look at home, and find it there.

Of debts and duns no more afraid, I now enjoy a happier shade, And more secure retreats from pain Than fancy paints or poets feign.

The painted cards and flying dice No longer plague with dull advice; I deal my cards, I shake my hand, And fear no loss of house or land.

When friends forsake, and riches fail. The last resource is still a jail: Here busy fools from toil repair, And find an end of all their care.

While others pay for learning sense, We here are taught at no expence; With doubts and fears the world is curs'd, But we are blest, who know the worst.

When at my window dark and high I stand to see the crowd go by, My fate with their I scorn to share For all betray the marks of care.

Of all the woes they feel or fear How few have gain'd admittance here! No scolding wives disturb our rest, No storms at sea our sleep molest.

No surly duns infest our gate, No schemes to live, no cares of state; No knotty points disturb our brain, No beggar's tale, no plans of gain.

If parsons come to preach or pray So kind they are they ask no pay; No landlords here with faucy eye Distrain our goods—and make us cry.

If states decline, or empires fail, What odds to us, who live in jail? Since freedom can be our's no more 'Twere mad to ask, Who bolts the door?

When sickness comes so blest are we The doctor scarce expects a see—: What station can with our's compare, Who with our keys thus look our care!