John Dowland

* * *

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 posess my tired thoughtworn 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.