[2750] “O triste nomen! o diis odibile
        Melancholia lacrymosa, Cocyti filia,
        Tu Tartari specubus opacis edita
        Erinnys, utero quam Megara suo tulit,
        Et ab uberibus aluit, cuique parvidae
        Amarulentum in os lac Alecto dedit,
        Omnes abominabilem te daemones
        Produxere in lucem, exitio mortalium. Et paulo post
        Non Jupiter ferit tale telum fulminis,
        Non ulla sic procella saevit aequoris,
        Non impetuosi tanta vis est turbinis. 
        An asperos sustineo morsus Cerberi? 
        Num virus Echidnae membra mea depascitur? 
        Aut tunica sanie tincta Nessi sanguinis? 
        Illacrymabile et immedicabile malum hoc.”

       “O sad and odious name! a name so fell,
        Is this of melancholy, brat of hell. 
        There born in hellish darkness doth it dwell,
        The Furies brought it up, Megara’s teat,
        Alecto gave it bitter milk to eat. 
        And all conspir’d a bane to mortal men,
        To bring this devil out of that black den. 
        Jupiter’s thunderbolt, not storm at sea,
        Nor whirlwind doth our hearts so much dismay. 
        What? am I bit by that fierce Cerberus? 
        Or stung by [2751]serpent so pestiferous? 
        Or put on shirt that’s dipt in Nessus’ blood? 
        My pain’s past cure; physic can do no good.”

No torture of body like unto it, Siculi non invenere tyranni majus tormentum, no strappadoes, hot irons, Phalaris’ bulls,

[2752] “Nec ira deum tantum, nec tela, nec hostis,
        Quantum sola noces animis illapsa.”

       “Jove’s wrath, nor devils can
        Do so much harm to th’ soul of man.”

All fears, griefs, suspicions, discontents, imbonites, insuavities are swallowed up, and drowned in this Euripus, this Irish sea, this ocean of misery, as so many small brooks; ’tis coagulum omnium aerumnarum:  which [2753]Ammianus applied to his distressed Palladins.  I say of our melancholy man, he is the cream of human adversity, the [2754] quintessence, and upshot; all other diseases whatsoever, are but flea-bitings to melancholy in extent:  ’Tis the pith of them all, [2755] Hospitium est calamitatis; quid verbis opus est?

       “Quamcunque malam rem quaeris, illic reperies:” 

       “What need more words? ’tis calamities inn,
        Where seek for any mischief, ’tis within;”

and a melancholy man is that true Prometheus, which is bound to Caucasus; the true Titius, whose bowels are still by a vulture devoured (as poets feign) for so doth [2756]Lilius Geraldus interpret it, of anxieties, and those griping cares, and so ought it to be understood.  In all other maladies, we seek for help, if a leg or an arm ache, through any distemperature or wound, or that we have an ordinary disease, above all things