I pray you, Sadness, leave me soon,
  In sweet invention thou art poor!
Thy sister Joy can make ten songs
  While thou art making four.

One hour with thee is sweet enough;
  But when we find the whole day gone
And no created thing is left -
  We mourn the evil done-

Thou art too slow to shape thy thoughts
  In stone, on canvas, or in song;
But Joy, being full of active heat,
  Must do some deed ere long.

Thy sighs are gentle, sweet thy tears;
  But if thou canst not help a man
To prove in substance what he feels -
  Then give me Joy, who can.

Therefore, sweet Sadness, leave me soon,
  Let thy bright sister Joy come more;
For she can make ten lovely songs
  While thou art making four.