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Deceitful fancy, why delud'st thou me, The dead alive presenting? My joy's fair image carv'd in shades I see: O false, yet sweet contenting! Why art not thou a substance like to me, Or I a shade to vanish hence with thee? Stay gentle object, my sense 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! |