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... 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 up sense, doth lock out all.

After a such fruition I shall wake,
And but the waking, nothing shall repent,
I 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.

Fill'd with her love, may I be rather grown
Mad with much heart, than idiot with none.