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!