Love-melancholy: An Octave by Gynecia -
An Octave by Gynecia
Like those sicke folkes in whom strange humours flow,
Can taste no sweets, the sowre onely please;
So to my mind, while passions daily grow,
Whose fierie chaines vpon his freedome seaze,
Ioyes strangers seeme, I cannot bide their show,
Nor brooke ought else but well-acquainted woe;
Bitter griefe tastes me best, paine is my ease;
Sicke to the death, still louing my disease.
Like those sicke folkes in whom strange humours flow,
Can taste no sweets, the sowre onely please;
So to my mind, while passions daily grow,
Whose fierie chaines vpon his freedome seaze,
Ioyes strangers seeme, I cannot bide their show,
Nor brooke ought else but well-acquainted woe;
Bitter griefe tastes me best, paine is my ease;
Sicke to the death, still louing my disease.
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