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.