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Prefatory Sonnet

  Nuns fret not at their Convent's narrow room;
  And Hermits are contented with their Cells;
  And Students with their pensive Citadels:
  Maids at the Wheel, the Weaver at his Loom,
  Sit blithe and happy; Bees that soar for bloom,
  High as the highest Peak of Furness Fells,
  Will murmur by the hour in Foxglove bells:
  In truth, the prison, unto which we doom
  Ourselves, no prison is: and hence to me,
  In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound
  Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground:
  Pleas'd if some Souls (for such there needs must be)
  Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,
  Should find short solace there, as I have found.

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