XLIII Melancholy
Hence, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly!
There’s nought in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see’t, 5
But only melancholy,
Oh, sweetest melancholy!
Welcome, folded arms, and fixèd eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,
A look that’s fastened to the ground, 10
A tongue chained up without a sound!
Fountain-heads, and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed, save bats and owls! 15
A midnight bell, a parting groan!
These are the sounds we feed upon;
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley;
Nothing’s so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.
Beaumont and Fletcher.