Demoniac frenzy, moping melancholy, / And moon-struck madness.

Hence loathèd Melancholy, / Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born.

Wrapt in a pleasing fit of melancholy.

To behold the wandering moon, / Riding near her highest noon, / Like one that had been led astray / Through the heav'n's wide pathless way; / And oft, as if her head she bowed, / Stooping through a fleecy cloud.

Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph that liv'st unseen
Within thy airy shell
By slow Meander's margent green,
And in the violet-imbroider'd vale
Where the love-lorn nightingale
Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well:
Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair
That likest thy Narcissus are?

The sun to me is dark / And silent as the moon, / When she deserts the night / Hid in her vacant, interlunar cave.