Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/267

 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!

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.

217. Weep no more

Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan, Sorrow calls no time that's gone: Violets pluck'd, the sweetest rain Makes not fresh nor grow again. Trim thy locks, look cheerfully; Fate's hid ends eyes cannot see. Joys as wingèd dreams fly fast, Why should sadness longer last? Grief is but a wound to woe; Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no moe.