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 thought-worn soul,
That living dies,
Till thou on me be stole.

Come shadow of my end,
And shape of rest,
Allied to death,
Child to child to his black-faced 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 my last sleepe comes,
Or come now never.

 = Lee Vogt