The Dream

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