When the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose.
To Sorrow I bade good-morrow, And thought to leave her far away behind; But cheerly, cheerly, She loves me dearly: She is so constant to me, and so kind.
How beautiful, if sorrow had not made Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.
O, sorrow! Why dost borrow Heart's lightness from the merriment of May?
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