Hence, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights,
Wherein you spend your folly!
There's naught in this life sweet,
If man 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 fastened to the ground,
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!
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.