Page:Essays - Abraham Cowley (1886).djvu/136


 * The sword still hangs over your head.

No tide of wine would drown your cares, No mirth or music over-noise your fears; The fear of death would you so watchful keep, As not to admit the image of it, sleep.

Sleep is a god too proud to wait in palaces; And yet so humble, too, as not to scorn
 * The meanest country cottages;
 * His poppy grows among the corn.

The halcyon sleep will never build his nest
 * In any stormy breast.
 * 'Tis not enough that he does find
 * Clouds and darkness in their mind;
 * Darkness but half his work will do,

'Tis not enough; he must find quiet too.

The man who, in all wishes he does make,
 * Does only Nature's counsel take,

That wise and happy man will never fear