Nightmare Abbey

by Thomas Love Peacock

Title page, 1818.

  Matthew. Oh! it’s your only fine humour, sir. Your
true melancholy breeds your perfect fine wit, sir. I am
melancholy myself, divers times, sir; and then do I no
more but take pen and paper presently, and overflow
you half a score or a dozen of sonnets at a sitting.

  Stephen. Truly, sir, and I love such things out of
measure.

  Matthew. Why, I pray you, sir, make use of my
study: it’s at your service.

  Stephen. I thank you, sir, I shall be bold, I warrant
you. Have you a stool there, to be melancholy upon?

BEN JONSON: Every Man in his Humour.

A. 3. S. 1.

Chapters:

I — II — III — IV — V — VI — VII — VIII — IX — X — XI — XII — XIII — XIV — XV