Melancholy

Hence, all you vain delights,

As short as are the nights

Wherein you spend your folly!

There's naught in this life sweet,

If men were wise to see't,

But only melancholy—

O sweetest melancholy!

Welcome, folded arms and fixéd eyes,

A sight that piercing mortifies,

A look that's fasten'd to the ground,

A tongue chain'd 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!