Melancholia

HEERE Melancholly musing in his fits,
Pale visag'd, of complexion cold and drie,
All solitarie, at his studie sits,
Within a wood, devoid of companie:
Saue Madge the Owle, and melancholly Pusse,
Light-loathing Creatures, hatefull, ominous.

His mouth, in signe of silence, vp is bound,
For Melancholly loues not many wordes:
One foote on Cube is fixt vpon the ground,
The which him plodding Constancie affordes:
A sealed Purse he beares, to shew no vice,
So proper is to him, as Avarice.