Prithee, what melancholy dost thou make,
So fair a music, that thy listeners take
Deeper delight, than many a merrier song
Of sunny pleasures can vouchsafe them long,
Thou garden mournful and Italian?
Yea, hie thee to that learned and ancient man,
Melancholy's Anatomist and high-priest,
And he shall tell thee whence thy woes increased
From delicate buds into these lonely flowers
Fragrant with faint breath, that not overpowers
Them that fain haunt thee, yet with gentle grace
Wafts them away to faeryland. A place
Thou art, wherein to walk alone at eve,
Whenas each folding blossom seems to grieve,
Or melancholy loveth so to deem.
Howbeit most melancholies do but dream
Delightsome things, as thou whose murmurs fall
Like passion's twilight, soft and musical.