There’s nought in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see’t, 5
But only melancholy,
Oh, sweetest melancholy!
Welcome, folded arms, and fixèd eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,
A look that’s fastened to the ground, 10
A tongue chained up without a sound!
Fountain-heads, and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!