The Dream.
That I might ever dream thus! that some power
To my eternal sleep would join this hour!
So, willingly deceiv’d, I might possess
In seeming joys a real happiness.
Haste not away: O do not dissipate5
A pleasure thou so lately didst create!
Stay, welcome Sleep; be ever here confin’d:
Or if thou wilt away, leave her behind.
Despair.
No, no, poor blasted Hope!
Since I (with thee) have lost the scope
Of all my joys, I will no more
Vainly implore
The unrelenting Destinies:5
He that can equally sustain
The strong assaults of joy and pain,
May safely laugh at their decrees.
Despair, to thee I bow,
Whose constancy disdains t’allow10
Those childish passions that destroy
Our fickle joy;
How cruel Fates so e’er appear,
Their harmless anger I despise,
And fix’d, can neither fall nor rise,15
Thrown below hope, but rais’d ’bove fear.
The Picture.
Thou that both feel’st and dost admire
The flames shot from a painted fire,
Know Celia’s image thou dost see:
Not to herself more like is she.
He that should both together view5
Would judge both pictures, or both true.
But thus they differ: the best part
Of Nature this is; that of Art.