HUMOUR, say, what mak'st thou here, In the presence of a queen? Princes hold conceit most dear; All conceit in humour's seen. Thou'rt a heavy leaden mood; Humour is invention's food. But never humour yet was true, But that which only pleaseth you. O, I am as heavy as earth, Say then—who is humour now? I am now inclined to mirth, Humour, I, as well as thou. Why, then, 'tis I am drowned in woe: No, no wit is cherished so: But never humour yet was true, But that which only pleaseth you. Mirth then is drowned in sorrow's brim: O, in sorrow all thing's sleep; No, no fool, the light things swim: Heavy things sink to the deep. In her presence all things smile, Humour, frolic then awhile: But never humour yet was true, But that which only pleaseth you. |