But whot of that? Love is a knave,

Was make hur do whot he woud have;
Was compell hur write the rime,

That ne'r was writ before the time.

And if he will nod pity hur paine,

As Got shudge hur soul, sall ne'r write again :
For love is like an ague-fit,

Was brin poore Welseman out on hur wit:
Till by hur onswer hur do know
Whother hur do love hur, ai or no.
Hur has not bin in England lung,

And conna speak the Englis tongue :
Put hur is hur friend, and so hur will prove,

Pray a send hur word, if hur con love.

When I go musing all alone,

Thinking of divers things fore-known,

When I build castles in the aire,

Void of sorrow and voide of feare, Pleasing my self with phantasmes sweet, Me thinks the time runs very fleet.

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

When I lie 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 go,

Me thinks the time moves very slow.
All my griefs to this are jolly,
Naught so sad as melancholy.

When to my self 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 do me blesse,
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 moane,
In a dark grove, or irkesome denne,
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 melodie,
Townes, 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, methinks I see
Ghosts, goblins, feinds, my phantasie
Presents a thousand ugly shapes,
Headlesse beares, black-men and apes,
Dolefull outcries, and fearefull 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 mistriss.
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 sighs 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 soul 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,
Do domineer in privacie.

No gemme, no treasure like to this,
'Tis my delight, my crown, 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,
Feare, discontent, and sorrows come.
All my griefs to this are jolly,
Naught so fierce as melancholy.

I'le 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?