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Poem	I pray you, Sadness, leave me soon, In sweet invention thou art poor! Thy sister, Joy can make ten songs While thou art making four. One hour with thee is sweet enough; But when we find the whole day gone And no created thing is left -- We mourn the evil done. Thou art too slow to shape thy thoughts In stone, on canvas, or in song; But Joy, being full of active heat, Must do some deed ere long. Thy sighs are gentle, sweet thy tears; But if thou canst not help a man To prove in substance what he feels -- Then givve me Joy, who can. Therefore sweet Sadness, leave me soon, Let thy bright sister, Joy, come more; For she can make ten lovely songs While thou art making four.
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