Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
From ‘The Nice Valour’John Fletcher (1579–1625)
H
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly!
There ’s naught in this life sweet,
If men were wise to see ’t,
But only melancholy—
O sweetest melancholy!
Welcome, folded arms and fixèd eyes,
A sight that piercing mortifies,
A look that ’s fasten’d to the ground,
A tongue chain’d up, without a sound!
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.