Hence, hence, all you vaine delights, As short as are the nights Wherein you spend your folly: Ther's nought in this life sweete, If men were wise to see'te But only Melancholly: O sweetest Melancholly! Welcome folded armes and fixed eyes, A sigh that piercing mortifies, A looke that's fastned to the ground, A tongue chayned upp without a sound. Fountains heads, and pathlesse groves, Places which pale Passion loves: Moonlike wakes, when all the Fowles Are warmly housde, save Batts and Owles: A midnight knell: a parting groane: These are the sounds wee feede upon. Then, stretch your bones in a still gloomy vally, Ther's nothing daynty, sweete, save Melancholly.