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Of Fashioun's sicklie birth;
Adieu! al boysterous mirthe,
Al pageant, pompe, and state,
And every flauntynge thing
To which the would-be-great
Of earth in madness cling.
Come with me, Melancholye,
We'll live like eremites holie,
In some deepe uncouthe wild
Where sunbeame never smylde:
Come 'with me, pale of hue,
To some lone silent spot,
Where blossom never grewe,
Which man hath quite forgot.
Come with thy thought-filled eye,
That notes no passer by,
And drouping solemne head,
Where phansyes strange are bred,
And saddening thoughts doe brood,
Which idly strive to borrow
A smyle to vaile thy moode
Of heart-abyding sorrow.
