Christ on their lips, hazarding their souls– never any strange illusions of salvation, but accordingly I will descend to particulars. Of a melancholy that extends itself to all– I speak of small animals and of dark anatomies. There is a trepidation perceived in them all– which is especially perceived from a high hill. It is true that there is a natural antipathy between the singular and the plural. It is also true that if you put a bird in a cage it will die from asphyxiation. But who is unaware of these common horrors? I will speak of others.
The poets are most subject to this malady. From the violence of melancholy, they run mad and away. I could relate many stories of poets that have died from grief, but they are common in every province and every body politic; their particular symptoms are as follows:
Uncivil, but obedient to the effect of expectation – with their tears, vows, and all their rhetoric, they are the ones who languish in many fair built and populous cities, and are made mute by the closing of a door.
Or is it that there are so many that they have become ‘a commonwealth of disease.’?