Ever let the Fancy roam, Pleasure never is at home.

While fancy, like the finger of a clock, Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.

Beggars invention and makes fancy lame.

Sad fancies do we then affect, In luxury of disrespect To our own prodigal excess Of too familiar happiness.

Let fancy still in my sense in Lethe steep; If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep!

So full of shapes is fancy That it alone is high fantastical.