With some that wept and cried out upon fate.
Who knoweth, my Miranda, what doth hap
To us when we do sleep? At whiles we note
In slumber tokens of a life apart
From this, alike, yet not alike, and who
May say how far the spirit wanders when
The body sleeps?
Miranda.Would all my dreams were like
To this we’ve wak’d from, for ’twas sweet, yet sad,
And not so sad but that ’twas sweet the more.