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Come heavy sleepe the image of true death; |
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And close up these my weary weeping eyes: |
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Whose spring of tears doth stop myvitall breath, |
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And tears my hart with sorrows sigh swoln cries: |
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Come and posses my tired thoughtsworn soul, |
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That living dies, till thou on me be stoule. |
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Come shadow of my end, and shapeof rest, |
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Allied to death, child to his blackfac'd night: |
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Come thou and charme these rebelsin my breast, |
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Whose waking fancies doe my mindaffright. |
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O come sweet sleepe; come, or I diefor ever: |
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Come ere my last sleepe comes, or come never. |
