Where is that World to which the fancy flies
When sleep excludes the Present from our eyes;
Whose map no voyager could e'er design,
Nor to description its wild parts confine?
Yet such a Land of Dreams, we must allow,
Who nightly trace it, though we know not how:
Unfetter'd by the days obtruded rules.
We all enjoy that Paradise of fools;
And find a sorrow in resuming sense,
Which breaks some free delight, and snatches us from thence.10