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Come, heavy sleep - First Booke of Songes, 1597, no20
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1
Come heavy sleepe the image of true death;
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And close up these my weary weeping eyes:
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Whose spring of tears doth stop my vitall breath,
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And tears my hart with sorrows sigh swoln cries:
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Come and posses my tired thoughts worn soul,
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That living dies, till thou on me be stoule.
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Come shadow of my end, and shape of rest,
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Allied to death, child to his blackfac'd night:
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Come thou and charme these rebels in my breast,
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Whose waking fancies doe my mind affright.
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O come sweet sleepe; come, or I die for ever:
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Come ere my last sleepe comes, or come never.
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