Dream (sonnet 2）

But dream, As of creed in mortals' wits
Each trembles, if sleep brings him to bed
Adores you like a god at heavenly portal sits
To be his fair blessings, disguised in one's head
Which heralds man's fate, too many thoughts
Be it black-dooms, pretty-fortunes, green-lucks
This had I debated, often been my plots
That fortunes is as ease as plucking a rose from its
stalk
Or drains no sweat, As scattering grains to caught
chicks
Then how often shall your foolery be, O dream?
By your crashed envisions, fouls and dreadful risks
Of truth i sue you sometimes sail upon stream
And bare glens, loughs withno bream nor pisces
Let the panbearers ride, if steed do turns their wishes.