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 never.