"Man in himself a little World contains / A Soul not subject or to Bonds or Chains."

— Oldmixon, John (1672/3-1742)

Work Title
Place of Publication
Printed, and are to be sold by John Nutt
"Man in himself a little World contains / A Soul not subject or to Bonds or Chains."
Metaphor in Context
William de la Pooll Duke of Suffolk to Queen Margaret.

Let not my Mistress my Misfortune share,
And I with Patience will my Exile bear.
Five rowling Years on nimble Wings wou'd fly,
Like Lover's minutes, if my Queen were by.
When thou art absent, 'tis Eternal Night,
And Banishment Eternal from thy Sight.
The Persians who adore the rising Day,
Cou'd they see thee, to thee wou'd Worship pay.
Thy Eyes excel the Sun's meridian Light,
Their Force as piercing, and their Rays as bright.
Their rival Beams with Wonder he surveys,
And in his rapid Course, to view thee, stays.
England a Prison wou'd without thee be,
And ev'ry Region curst alike to me.
Who cou'd to Bonds the Generous Pooll confine?
What Chains can I submit to wear, but thine.
We, like the Falcons, no restraint endure,
Nor stoop, like vulgar Birds, to ev'ry Lure.
With wanton Wings in open Air they play,
And ne'er descend, but when they seize their Prey.
Live where we will, our Dwelling is the same,
We view one Heav'n, and tread one earthly Frame.
No Exile to the Brave can be assign'd,
Nor with the Body is the Soul confin'd.
Man in himself a little World contains
A Soul not subject or to Bonds or Chains
Wheree'er his Body by constraint may be,
His Soul superior to their Force is free.
Who such Injustice, and be Calm, can bear,
The worst of Fortune has no need to fear.
At Leicester, Warwick my Disgrace contriv'd,
The States by him, and perjur'd Slaves deceiv'd.
Me they accus'd for yielding up of Main,
To me they charge the Loss of Aquitain.
By this, he feign wou'd win the Peoples Fame,
And be the Heir of good Duke Humphrey's Name.
My spotless Honour he abus'd with Lies,
That o'er the Pooll, the Nevil Race may rise.
He joyn'd in Counsel with his haughty Sire,
In York's stern Breast to kindle latent Fire.
By Clarence Title, aiming to supplant,
The Claims of Henry from the Famous Gaunt.
The Rout with fair Pretences he beguil'd,
And I, to please the Rabble, am exil'd.
Revenge my Good old Lord! the Traytor cry'd,
Revenge! the People and his Friends reply'd.
Tho' worn with Age the Fav'rite Duke deceas'd,
Yet I must suffer, and the Mob be pleas'd.
If they wou'd know who rob'd him of his Life,
From Man, they only need recal his Wife.
She, who in high Procession march'd along,
With flaming Wax, and penitential Song.
Let her again perform her Magic Rites,
And summon to her Aid, infernal Sprights.
From Hell, her Ministers must rise again,
To tell how Humphrey dy'd, and who shall reign.
Full Twenty Years in Gallick Plains I fought,
And Charles and Orleans to the Combat brought.
Amid the thickest of the War I prest,
And offer'd to the Foe my Loyal Breast.
I saw the Havock of Vernoylas Fields,
With the Slain cover'd, and abandon'd Shields,
I saw Great Bedford thro' the Host advance,
And England triumph o'er dejected France.
The Marks of honourable Wounds I wear,
Where most was Danger, I was always there.
With me Great Montacute and Talbot fought,
By my Example and Instruction taught.
Fierce Heats, and piercing Colds I have sustain'd.
In England's Service, early Laurels gain'd.
The French to Forts and Cities I persu'd,
I sackt their Towns, and dy'd their Streets with Blood.
For this, from England, I reproach receive,
And banisht, in the Lands I conquer'd, live.
For thee, thou know'st, the fairest I refus'd,
And, only thee, to be my Princess chus'd.
The Treaty for Arminiack was begun,
I put her off, and plac'd thee on the Throne.
To see thee oft, and that my Queen might reign,
I gave thy Father Anjou, Mans and Main.
His Daughter for her Dow'r her Beauties brought,
Whose Treasures were too Cheap by Empires bought.
Before Aumarl, I left my conqu'ring Arms,
To tell my Sovereign of thy wond'rous Charms.
At Tours Ambassadors of Peace I find,
Who su'd in vain till Love and Suffolk join'd.
My Tongue to praise thee was by Love inspir'd,
Young Henry heard, and with the Tale was fir'd.
With pow'rful Eloquence thy Charms I drew,
And set thee Glorious to the Monarh's view.
The King transported and confounded stood,
While I with Extasie the Theam pursu'd.
I prais'd thy Modesty, thy ev'ry Grace,
The Beauties of thy Mind and of thy Face.
Soft from my Tongue the moving Accents fell,
I, pleas'd to speak, and he to hear as well.
To us, I said, thou wou'dst new Glory bring,
Heiress of Sicily and Naples King.
Then of his Pow'r and of his Kingdoms sung,
As if his Daughter from a God were sprung.
With pompous Epithetes his Stile I grac'd,
And Rayner with the first of Monarchs plac'd.
Thus to advance thee in the King's Esteem,
And dear to me, to make thee dear to him.
How much I lov'd was in thy Nuptials seen,
In Henry's Name when I espous'd the Queen.
The Proxy shone in an Imperial Gown.
Of equal Value with thy Father's Crown.
The Realms were tax'd, and I with lavish hand,
Consum'd the Wealth of our empoverish'd Land.
To honour thee I on my Prince bestow'd,
My dearest Blessing, and my greatest Good.
Belov'd and Loving, I with Joy cou'd quit,
The Darling of my Heart, to make thee Great.
Had Jason, who adventur'd for the Prize,
As Poets sing, beheld thy sparkling Eyes,
And seen thee, such as on the Gallick Shoar,
The ravish'd Youth had left the worthless Oar.
With open Arms the Royal Maid to seize,
A richer Treasure than the Golden Fleece.
The Coasts of Diep were throng'd with weeping Crowds,
Who mourn'd to leave thee on the briny Floods.
The wanton Tide around thy Vessel play'd,
Old Ocean smil'd to see the heav'nly Maid.
Her silken Pride thy Ship display'd abroad.
And gamesom o'er the silver Waves she rode.
Sportive the Sea, as when Imperial Jove,
Bore thro' the yielding Waves his trembling Love.
The watry Nymphs their Harps divinely strung,
While sweet Arion on his Dolphin sung.
His Head fierce Neptune from his Palace rear'd,
And grimly pleasant with his Troop appear'd.
Before their King the Gods marine advanc'd,
While o'er the Waves th' immortal Lover danc'd.
Thus the proud Element to thee was kind,
To thee, in whom, all Beauty is confin'd.
Thou Pride of Nature, whom the Winds obey'd,
Fond of thy Smiles, and of thy Frowns afraid.
To Banishment, 'tis said, thy Pooll is gone,
France is his Prison, where his Fame he won.
A glorious Exile, this, my Queen, for me,
Where daily I the Fields of Conquest see.
The happy Plains with Pleasure I survey,
Where Gallia lost, and England got the Day.
Forth, here, the Vanguard mighty Bedford led,
Here Talbot charg'd, and here the French-men fled.
Scales and his Archers, there methinks appear,
And famous Willoughby again is there.
Again the Squadrons combating I view,
And now the Gallick fly, and ours pursue.
For what we cannot help we mourn in vain,
In all our Griefs, 'tis useless to complain.
Nor Sighs, nor Sorrows can our Pains relieve,
For then we suffer most, when most we grieve.
As mortal Men we're fated to endure,
Incessant Cares, and only this is sure.
The Laws Eternal, and the Pow'r we serve,
From what he once decrees, can never swerve.
We fondly prize what soon will fly away,
And cannot promise to our selves a Day.
Too oft we idly boast what we intend,
Forgetting our Designs on Heav'n depend.
What Fate has destin'd, only shall be done,
Which nor our Wisdom, nor our Strength can shun.
To the King's Will I must my Life resign,
The Pow'r is his, my Honour still is mine.
Courage, fair Queen, and let thy Looks declare,
No shew of Fear, not token of Despair.
Such as I saw thee at the Gallick Court,
Such as thou look'st, when we approacht the Port,
Where Henry waited on the crowded Strand,
And took his Royal Bride from Suffolk's hand.
New Graces then the youthful Queen adorn,
Blushing and Smiling as the Orient Morn.
With Rapture Henry seiz'd the Glorious Prey,
And bore thee in triumphant Pomp away.
Thus Gay, thus Happy may'st thou always be,
Nor dream of Danger for thy self or me.
Searching "bond" and "soul" in HDIS (Poetry)
John Oldmixon, Amores Britannici: Epistles Historical and Gallant (London: John Nutt, 1703). <Link to Google Books> <Link to ECCO>
Date of Entry

The Mind is a Metaphor is authored by Brad Pasanek, Assistant Professor of English, University of Virginia.