Say, lovely dream, where couldst thou find
Shadows to counterfeit that face?
Colors of this glorious kind
Come not from any mortal place.

In heaven itself thou sure wert drest
With that angel-like disguise;
Thus deluded am I blest,
And see my joy with closed eyes.

But, ah, this image is too kind
To be other than a dream!
Cruel Sacharissa's mind
Never put on that sweet extreme.

Fair dream, if thou intend'st me grace,
Change that heavenly face of thine;
Paint despised love in thy face,
And make it to appear like mine.

Pale, wan, and meager let it look,
With a pity-moving shape,
Such as wander by the brook
Of Lethe, or from graves escape.

Then to that matchless nymph appear,
In whose shape thou shinest so,
Softly in her sleeping ear,
With humble words express my woe.

Perhaps from greatness, state, and pride,
Thus surprised she may fall:
Sleep does disproportion hide,
And, death resembling, equals all.