Melancholy. I. MAlignant Humour, Poyson to my Blood! Bane of those active Spirits that glide And sport within the circling Tide, As Fish Expire in an infected Flood. When all th' Horizon of my Soul is clear, And I suspect no change of Weather near, Strait like a suddain Storm I find Thy black Fumes gath'ring in my Mind, Transforming All t'Egyptian Darkness there; Darkness where nought occurs to Sight But Flashes, more amazing than the Night; And fiery Spectres gliding through the troubled Air. II. Sleep that in other Maladies brings Ease, Feeds and enrages this Disease; For when my weary Lidds I close And slumber, 'tis without Repose. This Fury still into my Dreams will creep To Hagg my tim'rous Fancy while I sleep; Through Charnel Houses then I'm led, Those gloomy Mansions of the Dead, Where pensive Ghosts by their lov'd Reliques stay, And Curse th'approaching Day. By Merc'less Foes pursu'd and tane; Oft ship-wreckt on the Main, Beneath the Floods I seem to Dive; Oft in Wild Sarra's Desert forc't t'engage Some Savage Monster's Rage. Oft (Typhon-like) beneath a Mountain's weight I strive! III. Might I the Book of Fate peruse, To Read the Lot for me design'd, I should perhaps auspicious find Those Planets I accuse; But whilst for Information I Consult the false Astrology Of Melancholy Fear, Dark and ore-cast my future Dayes appear: All possible Misfortunes while I dread, I draw all possible Misfortunes on my Head; Whilst this solicitous Fear of Future Ill My credulous Thought employs, (Tho false its Augury, yet) it destroys My present Rest, and still Diverts me from pursuit of certain Joyes. Who seeks for Happiness with nicest Care Must watch its Seasons, and frequent its Haunt. Delight is a Rich tender Plant That Springs not in all Soils, and all the Year: 'Tis like the Manna which in plenty lay, If early sought, around Each Hebrews Tent, but if till Heat of Day Their Search they did delay. Th' Ambrosial Food was no where to be found.