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
Come, shadow of my end, and shape of rest,
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.
