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 Hence, hence, all you vaine delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly:
Ther's nought in this life sweete,
If men were wise to see'te
But only Melancholly:
O sweetest Melancholly!

Welcome folded armes and fixed eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,
A looke that's fastned to the ground,
A tongue chayned upp without a sound.
Fountains heads, and pathlesse groves, Places which pale Passion loves: Moonlike wakes, when all the Fowles Are warmly housde, save Batts and Owles: A midnight knell: a parting groane: These are the sounds wee feede upon.
Then, stretch your bones in a still gloomy vally, Ther's nothing daynty, sweete, save Melancholly

by William Strode
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