Classic Poem

Melancholy lieth dolorously ill,
one heel full fatally smitten:
Melancholy twitcheth and sigheth:
‘Must such as I, because of an itch,
move from the cheery sloth of a couch,
from watching my valorous nomad musings
coming and passing like pilgrims en route
from mooning philosophy on to the sun—
must such as I, almost ready to follow them,
legs follow musings like sheep follow bells—
must such as I, because of a scratch
imprinted by small ignominious teeth
of a small black common effeminate witch,
surely not one of my bidding—move?
What way is this, God, to make a man move?’
And his bed-fellow, Happiness,
petrified, groaneth:
‘What way is this, God, to make a man stone?’