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 blackfac’d night:
Come thou and charme 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 sleepe comes, or come never.
