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