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Poem	Hence, all you vain delights, As short as are the nights Wherein you spend your folly: There's nought in this life sweet, If man were wise to see't, But only melancholy, O sweetest melancholy! Welcome, folded arms, and fixed 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.
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