Bid come and remain at his call.

Sun, wind, and woodland and highland,

Give all that ever they gave:

But my world is a cultureless island,

My spirit a masterless slave.

And friends are about me, and better

At summons of no man stand:

But I pine for the touch of a fetter,

The curb of a strong king's hand.

Each hour of the day in her season

Is mine to be served as I will:

And for no more exquisite reason

Are all served idly and ill.

By slavery my sense is corrupted,

My soul not fit to be free:

I would fain be controlled, interrupted,

Compelled as a thrall may be.

For fault of spur and of bridle

I tire of my stall to death:

My sail flaps joyless and idle

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