A Copie of Verses, said to be Composed by His MAjESTIE, upon His first Imprisonment in the Isle of Wight.
IMprison me ye
Traytors! Must I be
Your fetter'd Slave, whilst you'r at liberty?
T'usurpe my
Scepter, and to make my
power
Gnaw its owne
Bowels, and it selfe devoure?
You glorious
Villaines! Treasons that have beene
Done in all
Ages, are
liv'd ore agen.
Nimble Proficients! you have far out-done
Your
Tutors presidents; and have out-run
The
practice of all times: We see againe,
A second
Cesar by a
Senate slaine:
A State disturb'd by th'
Gracchi; and the times
Spawning with
Sylla's and the
Catalines.
The
Villanies, and
Treasons, which of old,
Time has for
Incredulity inroll'd,
Are but mock-shews to yours, whose
Acts will be
Thought
Legendary by
Posterity.
Was't not enough you made me beare the
wrong
Of a
Rebellious Sword, and worser
Tongue,
To take my
Crowne, State, Children, Friends, and
Wife,
But will you have my
Liberty, and
Life?
'Cause Ile not
signe, or give
consent unto
Those lawlesse
Actions you have done, or doe?
Nor yet betray my
Subjects, and so be
As
Treacherous to them as you to me?
Mistaken
Fooles! d'ee think my
soule can be
Grasp'd, or infring'd, by such low things as ye?
And does the
Coronet forget his owne
True
Interest, to joynet to
spurne the
Crowne?
Can they not see, when th'
Oake's cut downe, that all
The
Clambring Ivie downe with it must fall?
Subjects can have no
safety but their
graves,
When
Slaves doe sway, and
Soveraignes are slaves.
True hearts, I pitty still, whose
Sufferings,
And
Remedies are twisted with the
Kings.
Alas! though I'm injur'd, my
mind's so free,
Ile make my very
Gaole your
Liberty.
Plot, do your worst; I safely shall
deride,
In my
crown'd Soule, your base, inferior
pride,
And stand unmov'd, though all your
plagues you bring,
Ile die a
Martyr, or Ile live a
King.
FINIS.