Page:John Dowland - First Book of Airs.djvu/97

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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 the black-faced Night;

Come thou and charm these rebels in my breast,
 * Whose waking fancies doth my mind affright.

O come, sweet Sleep, come or I die for ever; Come ere my last sleep comes, or come never. St. & B. 3202-20.$a$