First Booke of Songes 1597:20. Come heavy sleep

Come heavy sleep, the image of true death;

and close up these my weary weeping eies:

Whose spring of tears doth stop my vitall breath,

and tears my hart with sorrows sign swoln cries:

Com and possess my tired thoughts, worne soule,

That living dies, till thou on me be stoule.

Com and possess my tired thoughts, worne soule,

That living dies, till thou on me be stoule.

Come shadow of my end, and shape of rest,

Allied to death, child to blakefact night:

Come thou and charm these rebels in my breast,

Whose waking fancies doe my mind affright.

O come sweet sleepe; come, or I die ever:

Come ere my last sleep comes, or come never.

O come sweet sleepe; come, or I die ever:

Come ere my last sleep comes, or come never.