I'll tell thee a great marvel! Friend, give ear!
The fancy took me on one day to write:
Learn now what shifts one may be put to here.
My cell I search, prick brows and hair upright,
Then turn me toward a cranny in the door t
And with my teeth a splinter disunite;
Next find a piece of brick upon the floor,
Crumble a part thereof to powder small,
And form a paste by sprinkling water o'er.[1]
Then, then came Poesy with fiery call
Into my carcass, by the way methought
Whence bread goes forth—there was none else at all.
Now to return unto my primal thought:
Who wills to know what weal awaits him, must
First learn the ill that God for him hath wrought.
The jail contains all arts in act and trust;
Should you but hanker after surgeon's skill,
'T will draw the spoiled blood from your veins adust.
Next there is something in itself that will
Make you right eloquent, a bold brave spark,
Big with high-soaring thoughts for good and ill.
Blessed is the man who lies in dungeon dark,
Languishing many a month, then takes his flight
Of war, truce, peace he knows, and tells the mark.
Needs be that all things turn to his delight;
The jail has crammed his brains so full of wit,
They'll dance no morris to upset the wight.
[ 79 ]
- ↑ The Italian is acqua morta; probably a slang phrase for urine.
