DECEITFUL Fancy, why delud'st thou me, The dead alive presenting? My joy's fair image carved in shades I see. O false, yet sweet contenting! Why art thou not a substance like to me, Or I a shade to vanish hence with thee? Stay, gentle object, my sense still deceive With this thy kind illusion. I die through madness if my thoughts you leave. O strange, yet sweet confusion! Poor blissless heart, that feels such deep annoy Only to lose the shadow of thy joy! |