The Anatomy of Melancholy

We need not range so far abroad; we have familiar examples at home: Hacket, who said he was Christ, and his disciples Coppinger and Arthington; Burchet and Hovatus, burned at Norwich. We are unlikely ever to pass seven years without new prophets of this kind, each with a different inspiration: some to convert the Jews, some to fast forty days or go with Daniel into the lions’ den; some to foretell strange things, some for one purpose, some for another.

Strict religious zealots of humble standing and little learning are, for the most part, brought into these gross errors and troubles by misguided zeal, fasting, meditation and melancholy. Of such people I may conclude generally that, however sensible and intelligent they may seem in other matters, however well they may converse, their imagination is impaired. They are like comets, round everywhere except where their tails flare out: otherwise sound.

Many have formidable intellects and are otherwise sensible, but on this subject their madness and folly break out beyond measure: their foolishness erupts without limit. They are certainly deep in melancholy, if not completely mad, and need medical treatment more than many people confined to bed—more hellebore than those in Bedlam.