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A thousand pleasures do me bless,
And crown my soul with happiness.

All my joys besides are folly,
None so sweet as melancholy.

When I lie, sit, or walk alone,
I sigh, I grieve, making great moan,
In a dark grove, or irksome den, .
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 sour as melancholy.

Methinks I hear, methinks I see
Sweet music, wondrous melody,
Towns, palaces, and cities fine,
Here now, then there, the world is mine;
Rare beauties, gallant ladies shine,
Whate'er is lovely or divine.

All other joys to this are folly,
None so sweet as melancholy.

Methinks I hear, methinks I see
Ghosts, goblins, fiends :—my fantasy
Presents a thousand ugly shapes,
Headless bears, black men, and apes.

Doleful outcries, and fearful sights,
My sad and dismal soul affrights.

All my griefs to this are jolly,
None so damn’d as melancholy.

Methinks I court, methinks I kiss,
Methinks I now embrace my miss :
O blessed days, 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 joys to this are folly,
Nought so sweet as melancholy.

When I recount love's many frights,
My sighs and tears, my waking nights,
My jealous fits; O mine bard fate i "7
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,
Nought so harsh as melancholy.

Friends and companions, get you gone !
'Tis my desire to be alone;
Ne'er well, but when my thoughts and I
Do domineer in privacy.

No gem, no treasure like to this,
"Tis my delight, my crown, my bliss.

All my joys to this are folly,
Nought so sweet as melancholy.

"Tis my sole plague to be alone; ..
I am a beast, a monster grown;
I will no light nor company,
I find it now my misery.
The scene is turn’d, my joys are gone,
Fear, discontent, and sorrows come.

All my griefs to this are jolly,
Nought so fierce as melancholy.

I'll not change life with any king ;
I ravish'd am ! can the world bring
More joy, than still to laugh and smile,
In pleasant toys time to beguile?
Do not, O do not trouble me,
So sweet content I feel and see. '

All my joys to this are folly,
None so divine as melancholy.

I'll change my state with any wretch
Thou canst from jail or dunghill fetch.
My pain past cure; another hell;
I may not in this torment dwell ;

Now, desperate, I hate my life:
Lend me a halter or a knife.

All my griefs to this are jolly,
Nought so damn'd as melancholy.

FRANCIS DAVISON,

Son of the secretary of state who suffered so much from the

affair of Mary Queen of Scots, published a poetical miscellany, in 1602, under the title of “A Poetical Rapsodie,” containing small pieces by the compiler himself, by his brother Walter, by a friend whom he calls Anomos, by Sir John Davis, the Countess of Pembroke, Sir P. Sidney, Dr. Campion, &c. A second edition appeared in 1608, a third in 1611, and a fourth in 1621.

When I to you of all my woes complain,

Which you make me endure without release, With scornful smiles you answer me again,

That lovers true must bear, and hold their peace. Dear, I will bear, and hold my peace, if you Will hold your peace, and bear what I shall do.

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