Of a fantasticall dreame taken out of Petrarke.

THe thyng I likte in slepe, I founde a dreame vntrue,
What me mislikt was true, I sawe with open eyes:
A slepe I dreamt and thought, my chere had changed hue,
A wake I felt and founde, my former greef aryes.
You wakened senses now, why heare you not and see,
Those things I heard and sawe, when dreames apperde to mee:
What foolishe custome keeps, my wretched eyes accurste,
In slepe to see the beste, awake beholde the worste.

When pleasantly I slepe, a peace was promisde me,
When wofully I wakt, my warres renued againe:
When pleasantly I slept, in blisse I thought to bee,
When wofully I wakte, of hell I felt the paine.
If truthe annoye me then, and falshood please me beste,
With all my harte I wishe, no truthe in me maie reste:
Since wakyng workes me woe, and slepe contents my will,
God graunt I neuer wake, but liue by slepyng still.

Thrise happie are the beastes, by slombryng sleepe that liue,
Sixe months in quiet rest, with eyes iclosed faste:
I doe not saie sutche slepe, a shape of death doeth giue,
Nor wakyng represent, the life that aye doeth laste.
Contrary humours loe, posses my mased minde,
In wakyng death I feele, in slepyng life I finde:
If slepe the figure be, of death as moste men saie,
Come quickly death O death, and close myne eyes in claie.