WHEN I go Me thinks I court, me thinks I kiss, Thinking of divers things Me thinks I now embrace my fore-known, When I build castles in the ayr, Void of sorrow and void of feare, Pleasing myself with phantasms sweet, Methinks the time runs very fleet. By a brook side or wood so green, mone. In a dark grove, or irksome den, Sconce. All my griefes to this are jolly, None so sowr as melancholy. Methinks I hear, me thinks I see, Sweet musick, wondrous melodie, Towns, palaces, and cities fine; Here now, then there; the world is mine. Rare beauties, gallant ladies shine, What e'er is lovely or divine. All other joyes to this are folly, None so sweet as melancholy. Methinks I hear, methinks I see Ghosts, goblins, fiends; my phantasie Presents a thousand ugly shapes, Headless bears, black men, and apes, Doleful outcryes, and fearful sights, My sad and dismall soule affrights. All my griefes to this are jolly, None so damn'd as melancholy. mistriss. gone, 'Tis my desire to be alone; Ne'er well but when my thoughts and I Do domineer in privacie. No gemm, no treasure like to this, All my joyes to this are folly, None so divine as melancholy. I'll change my state with any wretch; Thou canst from gaole or dunghill fetch: My pain's past cure, another hell, I may not in this torment dwell, All my griefes to this are jolly, THE work now restored to public notice has had an extraordinary fate. At the time of its original publication it obtained a great celebrity, which continued more than half a century. During that period few books were more read, or more deservedly applauded. It was the delight of the learned, the solace of the indolent, and the refuge of the uninformed. It past through at least eight editions, by which the bookseller, as Wood records, got an estate; and, notwithstanding the objections sometimes opposed against it, of a quaint style, and too great an accumulation of authorities, the fascination of its wit, fancy, and sterling sense, have borne down all censures, and extorted praise from the first writers in the English language. The great JOHNSON has praised it in the warmest terms, and the ludicrous STERNE has interwoven many parts of it into his own popular performance. MILTON did not disdain to build two of his finest poems on it; and a host of inferior writers have embellished their works with beauties not their own, culled from a performance which they had not the justice even to mention. Change of times, and the frivolity of fashion, suspended, in some degree, that fame which had lasted near a century; and the succeeding generation affected indifference towards an author, who at length was only looked into by the plunderers of literature, "the poachers in obscure volumes. The plagiarisms of Tristram Shandy, so successfully brought to light by DR. FERRIAR, at length drew the attention of the public towards a writer, who, though then little known, might, without impeachment of modesty, lay claim to every mark of respect; and enquiry proved, beyond a doubt, that the calls of justice had been little attended to by others, as well as the facetious Yorick. WOOD observed, more than a century ago, that several authors had unmercifully stolen matter from BURTON without any acknowledgement. The time, however, at length arrived, when the merits of the " Anatomy of Melancholy" were to receive their due praise. The book was again sought. for and read, and again it became an applauded performance. Its excellencies once more stood confest, in the increased price which every copy offered for sale produced; and the increased demand pointed out the necessity of a new edition. This is now presented to the public in a manner not disgraceful to the memory of the author; and the undertakers of it rely with confidence, that so valuable a repository of amusement and information will continue to hold the rank it has been restored to, firmly supported by its own merit, and safe from the influence and blight of any future caprices of fashion. HEN I go musing all alone, fore-known, When I build castles in the ayr, Void of sorrow and void of feare, Pleasing myself with phantasms sweet, Methinks the time runs very fleet. By a brook side or wood so green, mone. In a dark grove, or irksome den, Sconce. All my griefes to this are jolly, None so sowr as melancholy. Me thinks I hear, me thinks I see, Sweet musick, wondrous melodie, Towns, palaces, and cities fine; Here now, then there; the world is mine. Rare beauties, gallant ladies shine, What e'er is lovely or divine. All other joyes to this are folly, None so sweet as melancholy. Methinks I hear, methinks I see Ghosts, goblins, fiends; my phantasie Presents a thousand ugly shapes, Headless bears, black men, and apes, Doleful outcryes, and fearful sights, My sad and dismall soule affrights. All my griefes to this are jolly, None so damn'd as melancholy. Methinks Me thinks I court, me thinks I kiss, now embrace my mistriss. O blessed dayes, O sweet content, move, So may I ever be in love. All my joyes to this are folly, Naught so sweet as melancholy. When I recount love's many frights, My sighs and tears, my waking nights, My jealous fits; O mine hard fate All my griefes to this are jolly, Naught so harsh as melancholy. Friends and companions get you gone, 'Tis my desire to be alone; Ne'er well but when my thoughts and I Do domineer in privacie. No gemm, no treasure like to this, All my joyes to this are folly, None so divine as melancholy. I'll change my state with any wretch; Thou canst from gaole or dunghill fetch: My pain's past cure, another hell, All my griefes to this are jolly, |