I would have given the world to hear my favourite Ode to Melancholy by Beaumont and Fletcher; you know it,—
An eye that's fastened on the ground,
A tongue chained up without a sound;
Gloomy cells and twilight groves,
Places which pale Passion loves, &c. &c.
But these pensive pleasures should be repeated at long intervals; they wind up the mind too high, and infuse into the spirit a sentiment compounded of sadness and delight, which, though it may qualify one to write odes, yet indisposes one for a much more indispensable thing, the enjoyment of the intercourse of ordinary society.