Her gentle ray dispenses, and invites
The swains and maids to mix in jovial dance,
Around the towering may-poles of the green,
Where each gay plowman does his partner choose
As love or fate directs; or o’er the lawn
The needle thread, or toss the bounding ball;
All cheerless I, nor dance, nor pleasing sport,
Nor social mirth, nor bowl of nappy ale.
Partake: but, on her drooping raven wing,
Sad Melancholy hovers o’er my head,