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.