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 waked'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, waked me;         Yet I thought thee— For thou lov'st truth—an angel, at first sight; But when I saw thou saw'st 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 anything 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, go'st to come: then I Will dream that hope again, but else would die.