Thus having done with orbs and sky,
Those mighty spaces vast and high,
Then down we come and take the shapes
Sometimes of cats, sometimes of apes.
Next turned to mites in cheese, forsooth,
We get into some hollow tooth;
Wherein, as in a Christmas hall,
We frisk and dance, the devil and all.
Then we change our wily features
Into yet far smaller creatures,
And dance in joints of gouty toes,
To painful tunes of groans and woes.
The Huntsman's Dirge.
The smiling morn may light the sky,
And joy may dance in beauty's eye,
Aurora's beams to see;
The mellow horn's inspiring sound
May call the blithe companions round,
But who shall waken thee,
Ronald?
Thon ne'er wilt hear the mellow horn,
Thou ne'er wilt quaff the breath of morn,
Nor join thy friends with glee;
No glorious sun shall gild thy day,
And beauty's fascinating ray
No more shall shine on thee,
Ronald!
In Praise of Melancholy.
Hence, all ye vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein ye spend your folly!
There's nought in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see't,
But only melancholy;
Oh, sweetest melancholy!
