Hence, hence, all you vaine delights, <br />As short as are the nights <br />Wherein you spend your folly: <br />Ther's nought in this life sweete, <br />If men were wise to see'te <br />But only Melancholly: <br /> O sweetest Melancholly! <br /> <br /> <br />Welcome folded armes and fixed eyes, <br />A sigh that piercing mortifies, <br />A looke that's fastned to the ground, <br />A tongue chayned upp without a sound. <br />Fountains heads, and pathlesse groves, <br />Places which pale Passion loves: <br />Moonlike wakes, when all the Fowles <br />Are warmly housde, save Batts and Owles: <br />A midnight knell: a parting groane: <br />These are the sounds wee feede upon. <br />Then, stretch your bones in a still gloomy vally, <br />Ther's nothing daynty, sweete, save Melancholly.<br /><br />William Strode<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/melancholly/
