 | The Poems of James VI. of Scotland |  |
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An ænigme of sleepe
Life is my selfe, I keepe the life of all
Without my helpe all liuing things they die
Small, greate, poore, ritche, obeye vnto my call
Feirce lions, foules, and whaills into the sie
With meete and drinke the hungrie I supplie
Deade drunken als I quicken newe againe
Dearer to Kings, nor crownes and sceptours hie
Vnto the riche, nor all there wealth and gaine
I am not nyse, the poore I'le not disdaine
Poore wretches more then Kings may me command
Where I cumme in all senses man refraine
Softer nor silke, and sadder nor the sand
I hurte, I helpe, I slaye, and cuire the same
Sleepe, and aduise, and panse well what I am.
| The Poems of James VI. of Scotland | |