Loves melancholly.
I Live in th'World, but how? in such deep Woe,
as though I were not made 'its joys to know:
I eat, yet feed not; from the choisest food,
I can't extract that goodness doth me good.
I drink, and often, still my Sorrow's dry,
and to chase sadness keep much company.
Them I disturb; for when their Mirth flies high,
damp't with a fit I break Society.
Retir'd vnto my Chamber, I converse
with some known Author either Prose or verse;
In my Survey, if any joys I find,
conferr'd on any, I am strucken Blind;
If any Mans hard Fate be queintly shewn,
I straight Compare his Torments with mine own;
And finding mine exceed, leave off to Read,
the Weight of Sorrow, bears me to my Bed:
There if I sleep my troubled Soul doth Walk,
and just as Mad-men use, to 'its self doth talk.
Awake, my Fancy wanders too and fro,
as though I knew not where to rest or go.
In such distracted Passions I am thrown,
I'm neither well in Publick nor alone:
I'm young and apt for Pleasure single too,
Objects enough that may my fancy Wooe,
And yet not Helens Beauty can delight
my eye or raise in me an appetite:
Nor is this Miracle I do impart,
And yet I breath, live, move, without a heart.