Melancholy

There is a stupid weight upon my senses; A dismal fallen stillness, that succeeds The storm of rage and grief, like silent death, After the tumult and the noise of life. Would it were death, as sure 'tis wond'rous like it; For I am sick of living. My soul is pall'd: She kindles not, with anger, or revenge. Love was th' informing active fire within: Now, that is quench'd; the mass forgets to move, And longs to mingle with its kindred earth.