Come, heavy Sleep, the image of true Death;
And close up these my weary weeping eyes:
Whose spring of tears doth stop my vital breath,
And tears my heart with Sorrow's sigh-swoll'n cries:
Come and possess my tired thought-worn soul,
That living dies, till thou on me be stole.

Come, shadow of my end, and shape of rest,
Allied to Death, child to his black-fac'd Night:
Come, thou, and charm these rebels in my breast,
Whose waking fancies do my mind affright.
O come, sweet Sleep; come or I die for ever:
Come ere my last sleep comes, or come thou never.

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