Sonnet

Ah! where is hid, if still it may survive The canker’d tooth of Age and Time’s despight, Ah! where is hid that Orb of glass so bright, That Merlin for King Ryence did contrive; That wond’rous Orb so bright, wherein did live, Or ever Time had brought them into light, The forms of things unborn, which to the sight Its high-enchanted power would strangely give!— For Hope, with counterfeit of this true Glass, Doth so beguile the lover’s easy mind, Still turning it to Fancy’s idiot eye, That Reason’s self forgets her majesty To join the gaze; till the fond phantoms pass, And Grief and stern Repentance rise behind.