II

But when the melancholy fit shall fall

      Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,

That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,

      And hides the green hills in an April shroud;

Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,

      Or on the rainbow of the salt-sand wave,

            Or on the wealth of globed peonies;

Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,

      Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,

            And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.