Recreation for ingenious head-peeces, or, A pleasant grove for their wits to walk in of epigrams 700, epitaphs 200, fancies a number, fantasticks abundance : with their addition, multiplication, and division.

[illustration]

Of Melancholy.

When I goe musing all alone, Thinking of divers things fore-knowne, When I build Castles in the aire, Vold of sorrow and void of feare,

Pleasing my selfe with phantasmes sweet, Me thinks the time runs very fleet. All my joyes to this are folly, Naught so sweet as melancholy.

When I lye waking all alone, Recounting what I have ill done, My thoughts on me then tyrannise, Fear and sorrow me surprise, Whether I tarry still or goe, Me thinks the time moves very sloe. All my griefs to this are jolly, Naught so sad as melancholy.

When to my selfe I act and smile, With pleasing thoughts the time beguile, By a brook side or wood so green, Unheard, unsought for, or unseen, A thousand pleasures doe me bless, And crown my soul with happinesse. All my joyes besides are folly, None so sweet as melancholy.

When I lye, sit, or walk alone, I sigh, I grieve, making great moan, In a dark grove, or irksome den, With discontents and Furies then, A thousand miseries at once,

Mine heavy heart and soul ensconce. All my griefs to this are jolly, None so soure as melancholy.

Me thinks I hear, me thinks I see, Sweet Musick, wondrous melody, Towns, places and Cities fine, Here now, then there, the world is mine, Rare Beauties, gallant Ladies shine, What e're is lovely or divine, All other joyes to this are folly, None so sweet as melancholy.

Me thinks I hear, me thinks I see Ghosts, goblins, feinds, my phantasie Presents a thousand ugly shapes, Headlesse bears, black-men and apes, Dolefull outcries, and fearfull sights, My sad and dismall soule affrights. All my griefs to this are jolly, None so damn'd as melancholy.

Me thinks I court, me thinks I kisse, Me thinks I now embrace my Mistrisse. O blessed dayes, O sweet content, In Paradise my time is spent, Such thoughts may still my fancy move, So may I ever be in love.

All my joyes to this are folly, Naught so sweet as Melancholy.

When I recount loves many frights, My sighes and tears, my waking nights, My jealous fits; O mine hard fate, I now repent, but 'tis too late. No torment is so bad as love, So bitter to my soule can prove. All my griefs to this are jolly, Naught so harsh as Melancholy.

Friends and Companions get you gone, 'Tis my desire to be alone, Ne're well but when my thoughts and I, Doe domineer in privacy. No Jem no treasure like to this, 'Tis my delight, my Crowne, my blisse. All my joyes to this are folly, Naught so sweet as Melancholy.

'Tis my sole plague to be alone, I am a beast, a monster growne, I will no light nor company, I find it now my misery. The scene is turn'd, my joyes are gone, Fear, discontent, and sorrowes come.

All my griefs to this are jolly, Naught so fierce as Melancholy.

Ile not change life with any King, I ravisht am: can the world bring More joy, then still to laugh and smile, In pleasant toyes time to beguile? Doe not, O doe not trouble me, So sweet content I feele and see. All my joyes to this are folly, None so divine as Melancholy.

Ile change my state with any wretch, Thou canst from gaole or dunghill fetch: My pain's past cure, another Hell, I may not in this torment dwell. Now desperate I hate my life, Lend me an halter or a knife. All my griefs to this are jolly, Naught so damn'd as Melancholy.