Quick Fancy takes her wonted way, 10
Or Baxter’s sprites my soul abuse—
For how it is I cannot say,
Nor, to what powers a passive prey,
I feel such bliss, I fear such pain;
But all is gloom, or all is gay,
Soon as th’ ideal World I gain.
III.
Come, then, I woo thee, sacred Sleep!
Vain troubles of the world, farewell!