University of Virginia Library

Sleep , thou most soft and pleasing of the Gods,
That kindly easest weary Mortals Loads!
What other angry Deities infer,
Thou, Tutelary, Genius help'st to bear.
Even Jove himself must part the time with Thee,
Thou Ease and Aid of our Mortality!
To th' Gods and Fate we do the day resign,
But half the Time, the Night, sweet Sleep, is thine:
To whom our Life those Cordial hours doth owe,
Help to digest the Bitterness of woe!

The Springs of Life would soon exhausted be,
If not replenish'd and refresh'd by Thee.
Thou call'st the flagging Spirits to the Brain,
With Balmy Dew sprinklest the wearied Train,
That grow and flourish with thy moistning showers;
As silver Drops lift up the tender Flowers.
The long-distended Nerves are laid to rest,
And silent Ease spreads o're the heaving Breast:
A pleasing Numness on the Limbs doth seize,
And all, but Labouring Fancy, is at ease:
A thousand shapes She o're the Brain doth roul,
Disjointed Schemes play i'th' deluded Soul:
Inverted thoughts without, or Form, or Law,
Fragments of what before we heard, or saw:
Till the refreshed Spirits with haughty Pride,
With vigorous Strength thro all the Limbs do glide,
And break the Silken Fetters, Sleep had ty'd.

Thou lull'st at once Us and our Woes asleep;
Thy Guards from Troubles faithfull Centry keep.
It is the sacred Time they must refrain,
And wait, till we rise from thy Arms again.
Thou Safe Asylum, where the wretched Slave
With the proud Victor equal share can have:
Both meet in thy Embraces, both lie down,
(I'th' Grave and Sleep there's no Distinction known)
Both senceless of the Joys, or Griefs, they own.
The weary Wretch, that Tugs at th' Oar doth find.
Of all the Gods, Thou art to him most kind.
Thy Charitable help doth condescend
Ease to the loaded Prisoner to lend,
That low in Dungeons lies far from the sight
Of Mortal Eyes, and th' common Good, the Light:
Thou cheer'st his blinded Eyes and troubled Mind,
And Him, that's lost to all the World, dost find.
Thou visit'st Humble Cotes and silent Cells,
Where Native Innocence and Pleasure dwells;
Where Love and Peace do undisturbed reign,
And Truth and Safety's more esteem'd, than Gain.
But far thou fliest from Courts and Rooms of State,
From Noise of Business and of being Great.
Ambition there upon the Mind doth seize,
And Lust and Rage do rob the Soul of Ease:
Bloody Revenge the Tortur'd heart doth tear,
Nor doth black Jealousie the Entrails spare.
They smile without, but inwardly do bleed,
And restless Vultures on the Liver feed.
Scorpions and Furies there may make aboad,
But there's no Room for Thee, thou pleasing God!
With weary steps they may to Honour crawl,
And Golden showers into their Laps may fall:
But Thee they want, bless'd Sleep, who sweet'nest all.

All States and Tempers of thy Pleasures tast;
Which, when all other Joys are gone, do last.
Despairing Wretches, from whom Comforts fly,
May in Ambitious Dreams yet happy be,
And what they ne're shall have. Enjoy by Thee
The Valiant Souldier dreams of Mortal Wars,
Of bloody Wounds and Honourable Scars,
Grasps at Imaginary Crowns, and lies
Entranc'd in Ravishing Sighs and Exstasies:
Till the soft Bonds of downy Sleep do break,
Then grieves and sighs, that he so soon doth wake.
A Lover's mind Beauteous Ideas dress,
While slumber doth his wandring Soul possess.
The Object of his Flame he doth adore,
Freely Embraces, what was Coy before,
What his unbounded thoughts desire, enjoys;
Fancy the room of what's not there supplies.
Unwillingly he's wak'd out of his Dream,
And grieves, that all was but Ixion's Scheme.
The sweet-tongu'd Poet, whose Immortal Song
Makes Men rise Gods, and Age it self grow young,
Tho poor Contempt offend his waking eyes,
Rich in thine Arms, thou Sole Mœcenas, lyes.
Sleep doth the Draughts of former Acts retrieve,
Disorder'd Cuts of Ancient Gests doth give:
Each of his Calling or his Deeds doth dream,
Merchants o'th' Sea, the Husbandman of's Team,
Lawyers of Strife, and Sportsmen of their Game.
Sleep the Day's Pleasures doubles in the Night,
And kindly represents what doth delight;
Death's younger Brother!—
The first Essay of our Mortality;
The First, that learns us, what it is to dy!

A near agreement Sleep and Death do keep,
“Sleep's a short Death and Death a longer sleep.
In sleep our business with the World is done,
What's acted, or what's spoke, to us unknown:
Secret, as when we in the Grave lie down.
We'r unconcern'd at th' buz and Noise of things,
At the Erection or the fall of Kings.
No Plots nor deep Designs in hand we have,
Are but one step on this side of the Grave.

The Dust doth equal all, and Sleep doth so:
Alike to both, Monarchs and Captives bow:
While fast their sences sleepy Fetters bind,
No difference We 'twixt Prince and Peasant find;
All senceless Lumps of flesh alike; nor can
The Wise be sever'd from the Foolish Man.
Both may have Dreams, and both alike confus'd;
Chance governs all, where Wisdom is not us'd.
And Peasants may have Dreams as great and high,
As those that fill the head of Majesty.
They'r breathing Mummies all, and till they wake,
Wisdom or Greatness no Distinction make.