X.

Now last of all to fill a place,
Presented is the Author’s face;
And in that habit which he wears,
His image to the world appears. 
His mind no art can well express,
That by his writings you may guess. 
It was not pride, nor yet vainglory,
(Though others do it commonly)
Made him do this:  if you must know,
The Printer would needs have it so. 
Then do not frown or scoff at it,
Deride not, or detract a whit. 
For surely as thou dost by him,
He will do the same again. 
Then look upon’t, behold and see,
As thou lik’st it, so it likes thee. 
And I for it will stand in view,
Thine to command, Reader, adieu.

THE AUTHOR’S ABSTRACT OF MELANCHOLY, [Greek:  Dialogos]

        When I go musing all alone
        Thinking of divers things fore-known. 
        When I build castles in the air,
        Void of sorrow and void of fear,
        Pleasing myself with phantasms sweet,
        Methinks the time runs very fleet. 
          All my joys to this are folly,
          Naught so sweet as melancholy. 
        When I lie waking all alone,
        Recounting what I have ill done,
        My thoughts on me then tyrannise,
        Fear and sorrow me surprise,
        Whether I tarry still or go,
        Methinks the time moves very slow. 
          All my griefs to this are jolly,
          Naught so mad as melancholy. 
        When to myself I act and smile,
        With pleasing thoughts the time beguile,
        By a brook side or wood so green,
        Unheard, unsought for, or unseen,
        A thousand pleasures do me bless,
        And crown my soul with happiness. 
          All my joys besides are folly,
          None so sweet as melancholy. 
        When I lie, sit, or walk alone,
        I sigh, I grieve, making great moan,
        In a dark grove, or irksome den,
        With discontents and Furies then,
        A thousand miseries at once
        Mine heavy heart and soul ensconce,
          All my griefs to this are jolly,
          None so sour as melancholy. 
        Methinks I hear, methinks I see,
        Sweet music, wondrous melody,
        Towns, palaces, and cities fine;
        Here now, then there; the world is mine,
        Rare beauties, gallant ladies shine,
        Whate’er is lovely or divine. 
          All other joys to this are folly,
          None so sweet as melancholy. 
        Methinks I hear, methinks I see
        Ghosts, goblins, fiends; my phantasy
        Presents a thousand ugly shapes,
        Headless bears, black men, and apes,
        Doleful outcries, and fearful sights,
        My sad and dismal soul affrights. 
          All my griefs to this are jolly,
          None so damn’d as melancholy.