Image of her whom I love, more than she,
Whose fair impression in my faithful heart,
Makers 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 soal, 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 up sense, doth lock out all.
After such fruition 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.
But 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 her love, may I be rather grown
Mad with much heart, than idiot with none.
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