The Dream

Dear love, for nothing less than thee    Would I have broke this happy dream;         It was a theme    For reason, much too strong for fantasy,    Therefore thou wak'd'st me wisely; yet    My dream thou brok'st not, but continued'st it.    Thou art so true that thoughts of thee suffice    To make dreams truths, and fables histories;    Enter these arms, for since thou thought'st it best,   Not to dream all my dream, let's act the rest.    As lightning, or a taper's light,   Thine eyes, and not thy noise wak'd me;        Yet I thought thee   (For thou lovest truth) an angel, at first sight;   But when I saw thou sawest my heart,   And knew'st my thoughts, beyond an angel's art,   When thou knew'st what I dreamt, when thou knew'st when   Excess of joy would wake me, and cam'st then,   I must confess, it could not choose but be   Profane, to think thee any thing but thee.    Coming and staying show'd thee, thee,   But rising makes me doubt, that now        Thou art not thou.   That love is weak where fear's as strong as he;   'Tis not all spirit, pure and brave,   If mixture it of fear, shame, honour have;   Perchance as torches, which must ready be,   Men light and put out, so thou deal'st with me;   Thou cam'st to kindle, goest to come; then I   Will dream that hope again, but else would die.