246
Tixall Poetry.
On Melancholy.
Stand off, physician! let me frolick
With my humour melancholick.
'Tis pleasure—it is pain likewise;
Tis hell, and yet a paradise.
Tis white and black,—'tis all upon
Checker'd imagination.
Tis an odd conceited theam;
'Tis nature's rambling idle dream;
Her cheating optick-glass, which lies,
Falsely abstracts and multiplies.
With my humour melancholick.
'Tis pleasure—it is pain likewise;
Tis hell, and yet a paradise.
Tis white and black,—'tis all upon
Checker'd imagination.
Tis an odd conceited theam;
'Tis nature's rambling idle dream;
Her cheating optick-glass, which lies,
Falsely abstracts and multiplies.
The man of Rhodes, whose stature was
Nine hundred camels' load of brass,
This mighty Phœbus can't compare
With the melancholy I bear,
Nine hundred camels' load of brass,
This mighty Phœbus can't compare
With the melancholy I bear,
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