Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase are fruits of innocence and blessedness.

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year Of wailing winds and naked woods and meadows brown and sear

The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.

This melancholy London- I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whiff of air.

I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano!

With eyes up-rais'd, as one inspir'd, Pale Melancholy sate retir'd, And from her wild sequester'd seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Pour'd thro' the mellow horn her pensive soul.