Upon The Bishop Of Lincoln's Imprisonment.

Never was day so over-sick with showers     But that it had some intermitting hours;     Never was night so tedious but it knew     The last watch out, and saw the dawning too;     Never was dungeon so obscurely deep     Wherein or light or day did never peep;     Never did moon so ebb, or seas so wane,     But they left hope-seed to fill up again.     So you, my lord, though you have now your stay,     Your night, your prison, and your ebb, you may     Spring up afresh, when all these mists are spent,     And star-like, once more gild our firmament.     Let but that mighty Csar speak, and then     All bolts, all bars, all gates shall cleave; as when     That earthquake shook the house, and gave the stout     Apostles way, unshackled, to go out.     This, as I wish for, so I hope to see;     Though you, my lord, have been unkind to me,     To wound my heart, and never to apply,     When you had power, the meanest remedy.     Well, though my grief by you was gall'd the more,     Yet I bring balm and oil to heal your sore.