< First Book of Airs
Come, heavy Sleep, the image of true Death,
Come, shadow of my end, and shape of rest,
Come, heavy Sleep
1
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.
2
Allied to Death, child to the black-faced Night;
Come thou and charm these rebels in my breast,
Whose waking fancies doth my mind affright.
O come, sweet Sleep, come or I die for ever;
Come ere my last sleep comes, or come never.
Come, heavy Sleep
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