She's all my fancy painted her, She's lovely, she's divine.

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.

Tell me where is fancy bred, Or in the heart, or in the head? How begot, how nourished? Reply, reply. It is engend'red in the eyes, With gazing fed, and fancy dies In the cradle where it lies.

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