Prison'd in a parlour snug and small, Like bottled wasps upon a southern wall.

Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass, Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron, Can be retentive to the strength of spirit; But life, being weary of these worldly bars, Never lacks power to dismiss itself.

That which the world miscalls a jail, A private closet is to me. . . . . Locks, bars, and solitude together met, Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret.

In durance vile.

I have been studying how I may compare This prison where I live unto the world; And, for because the world is populous, And here is not a creature but myself, I cannot do it. Yet I'll hammer it out.

I have been studying how I may compareThe prison where I live unto the world.