Staying in London after the Act for Banishment, and going to meet a Friend who fail'd the hour appoynted

Two hundred minutes are run down,

since I and all my Grief fare here;

(Whom yet you will nor save nor drown)

In a long Gasp 'twixt Hope and Fear:

Thus Lucian's tortur'd Fool did cry,

He could not live, and durst not dye.

How full of Mischief is this Coast!

Villains and Fooles peep every way;

If once these Seekers find, I'm lost;

I dare not go, I dare not stay:

Here I am Rooted 'till the Sky

Be hung as full of Clouds as I.

All Islanders are prisoners Born,

We, Slaves to Slaves, in Five-mile Chaines

I Theirs, and Yours, but most forlorn

Where Purgatory Hell out-pain's:

I'm in a new third Dungeon here,

Shackles on Shackles who can wear?

Sad and unseen I view the Rowt

Which through this Street do ebb and flo;

Some few have Business, most without;

Their Pace this trundling Rithm does go:

O tear me hence, for I am grow'n

As empty-base as all this Town!