And is thy soul so wrapt in sleep?
Thy senses, thy affections, fled?
No play of fancy thine, to keep
Oblivion from that grave, thy bed?
Then art thou but the breathing dead;
I envy, but I pity too:
The bravest may my terrors dread,
The happiest fain my joys pursue.
II.
Soon as the real World I lose,