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Elegie. |
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Image of her whom I love, more then she, |
Whose faire impression in my faithfull heart, |
Makes mee her Medall, and makes her love mee, |
As Kings do coynes, to which their stamps impart |
The value: goe, and take my heart from hence, |
Which now is growne too great and good for me. |
Honours oppresse weake spirits, and our sense, |
Strong objects dull, the more, the lesse wee see. |
When you are gone, and Reason gone with you, |
Then Fantasie is Queene and Soule, and all; |
She can present joyes meaner then you do; |
Convenient, and more proportionall. |
So, if I dreame I have you, I have you, |
For, all our joyes are but fantasticall. |
And so I scape the paine, for paine is true; |
And sleepe which locks up sense, doth lock out all. |
After a such fruition I shall wake, |
And, but the waking, nothing shall repent; |
And shall to love more thankfull Sonnets make, |
Then if more honour, teares, and paines were spent. |
But dearest heart, and dearer image stay; |
Alas, true joyes at best are dreame enough; |
Though you stay here you passe too fast away: |
For even at first lifes Taper is a snuffe. |
Fill'd with her love, may I be rather grown |
Mad with much heart, then ideott with none.
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[CW: Elegie] |