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Image of her whom I love, more than she, |
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Whose fair impression in my faithful heart, |
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Makes me her medal, and makes her love me, |
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As kings do coins, to which their stamps impart |
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The value: go, and take my heart from hence, |
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Which now is grown too great and good for me: |
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Honours oppress weak spirits, and our sense |
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Strong objects dull; the more, the less we see. |
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When you are gone, and reason gone with you, |
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Then fantasy is queen and soul, and all; |
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She can present joys meaner than you do; |
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Convenient, and more proportional. |
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So, if I dream I have you, I have you, |
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For, all our joys are but fantastical. |
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And so I 'scape the pain, for pain is true; |
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And sleep which locks ups sense, doth lock out all. |
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After a such friction I shall wake, |
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And, but the waking, nothing shall repent; |
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And shall to love more thankful sonnets make, |
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Than if more honour, tears, and pains were spent. |
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Bur dearest heart, and dearer image stay; |
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Alas, true joys at best are dream enough; |
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Though you stay here you pass too fast away: |
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For even at first life's taper is a snuff. |
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Filled with here love, may I be rather grown |
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Mad with much heart, than idiot with none. |
