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80 pages, Paperback
Published January 12, 2017

Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile,
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court?
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,
The seasons' difference, as the icy fang
And churlish chidings of the winter's wind,
Which, when it bites and blows upon my body,
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say
‘This is no flattery: these are counsellors
That feelingly persuade me what I am.’
For I am all the subjects that you have,
Which first was mine own king: and here you sty me
In this hard rock, while you do keep from me
The rest o' the island.