Soul
O
Who
shall,
from
this
Dungeon,
raise
A
Soul
inslav'd
so
many
wayes?
With
bolts
of
Bones,
that
fetter'd
stands
In
Feet
;
and
manacled
in
Hands.
Here
blinded
with
an
Eye
;
and
there
Deaf
with
the
drumming
of
an
Ear.
A
Soul
hung
up,
as
'twere,
in
Chains
Of
Nerves,
and
Arteries,
and
Veins.
Tortur'd,
besides
each
other
part,
In
a
vain
Head,
and
double
Heart.
Body
O
who
shall
me
deliver
whole,
From
bonds
of
this
Tyrannic
Soul?
Which,
stretcht
upright,
impales
me
so,
That
mine
own
Precipice
I
go;
And
warms
and
moves
this
needless
Frame:
(A
Fever
could
but
do
the
same.)
And,
wanting
where
its
spight
to
try,
Has
made
me
live
to
let
me
dye.
A
Body
that
could
never
rest,
Since
this
ill
Spirit
it
possest.
Soul
What
Magic
could
me
thus
confine
Within
anothers
Grief
to
pine?
Where
whatsoever
it
complain,
I
feel,
that
cannot
feel,
the
pain.
And
all
my
Care
its
self
employes,
That
to
preserve,
which
me
destroys:
Constrain'd
not
only
to
indure
Diseases,
but,
whats
worse,
the
Cure:
And
ready
oft
the
Port
to
gain,
Am
Shipwrackt
into
Health
again.
Body
But
Physick
yet
could
never
reach
The
Maladies
Thou
me
dost
teach;
Whom
first
the
Cramp
of
Hope
does
Tear:
And
then
the
Palsie
Shakes
of
Fear.
The
Pestilence
of
Love
does
heat
:
Or
Hatred's
hidden
Ulcer
eat.
Joy's
chearful
Madness
does
perplex:
Or
Sorrow's
other
Madness
vex.
Which
Knowledge
forces
me
to
know;
And
Memory
will
not
foregoe.
What
but
a
Soul
could
have
the
wit
To
build
me
up
for
Sin
so
fit?
So
Architects
do
square
and
hew,
Green
Trees
that
in
the
Forest
grew.