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