Classic Poem

It is as true, as strange (els Triall faines)
That whosoeuer in the Moone-shine sleepes,
Are hardly wak't, the Moone so rules the Braines;
For Shee is Soueraigne of the Braines , and Beames ,
So thou (faire Cynthia ) with thy borrowed Beames ,
(Borrow'd of Glories Sunne, great Lord of Light! )
Makst me still sleepe, in Loue, Whose golden Dreames
Giue Loue right Currant, sith well-Coyn'd, Delight.
I cannot wake, while thou, on me, dost shine,
Thy shyning so, makes me so sweetly Dreame:
For, still me thinks I kisse those lippes of thine:
And, — nothing els, for, I will not blaspheame:
But thought is free, and Dreames, are Dreames, and so
I dreame, and dreame, and dreame, but let That go.