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 through-worn soul,
That living dies till thou on me be stole.
Come, shape of rest, and shadow of my end,
Allied to Death, child to his joyless black-fac'd Night,
Come thou and charm these rebels in my breast,
Whose waking fancies doth my mind affright.
O come, sweet Sleep, or I die forever;
Come ere my last sleep comes, or come thou never.