Hence, all ye vain delights,
As short as are the nights
  Wherein you spend your folly! 
  There’s naught in this life sweet,
  If man were wise to see’t
    But only melancholy,
    O, sweetest melancholy!

Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,
A look that’s fastened to the ground,
A tongue chained up without a sound!

Fountain-heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves! 
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed save bats and owls! 
A midnight bell, a parting groan! 
These are the sounds we feed upon;
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley: 
Nothing’s so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.

JOHN FLETCHER.

THE FALL OF CARDINAL WOLSEY.

     FROM “KING HENRY VIII.,” ACT III.  SC. 2.

Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. 
Let’s dry our eyes:  and thus far hear me, Cromwell;
And—­when I am forgotten, as I shall be,
And sleep in dull, cold marble, where no mention
Of me more must be heard of—­say, I taught thee,
Say, Wolsey—­that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor—­
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in;
A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it. 
Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me. 
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition: 
By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by ’t? 
Love thyself last:  cherish those hearts that hate thee: 
Corruption wins not more than honesty. 
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,
To silence envious tongues.  Be just, and fear not: 
Let all the ends thou aim’st at be thy country’s,
Thy God’s, and truth’s; then if thou fall’st, O Cromwell! 
Thou fall’st a blessed martyr. 
Serve the king; and—­pr’ythee, lead me in: 
There take an inventory of all I have,
To the last penny; ’tis the king’s:  my robe,
And my integrity to heaven, is all
I dare now call mine own.  O Cromwell, Cromwell! 
Had I but served my God with half the zeal
I served my king, he would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies!

* * * * *

Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness! 
This is the state of man:  to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him: 
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost;
And—­when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a ripening—­nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do.  I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This many summers in a sea of glory;
But far beyond my depth:  my high-blown pride