Sting Come, Heavy Sleep

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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, till thou on me be stoule.

Come shadow of my end, and shape of rest,
Allied to death, child to his blackfac'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 sleepe comes, or come never.