Wrapt in a pleasing fit of melancholy.

Hence loathèd Melancholy, / Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born.

Demoniac frenzy, moping melancholy, / And moon-struck madness.

Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph that liv'st unseen
Within thy airy shell
By slow Meander's margent green,
And in the violet-imbroider'd vale
Where the love-lorn nightingale
Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well:
Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair
That likest thy Narcissus are?

Life is a jest; and all things show it. I thought so once; but now I know it.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall / Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, / That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, / And hides the green hill in an April shroud; / Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose.