Or ever Time had brought them into light,
The forms of things unborn, which to the sight
Its high-enchanted power would strangely give!—
For Hope, with counterfeit of this true Glass,
Doth so beguile the lover’s easy mind,
Still turning it to Fancy’s idiot eye,
That Reason’s self forgets her majesty
To join the gaze; till the fond phantoms pass,
And Grief and stern Repentance rise behind.