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 sigh 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! 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.