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!