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109

5.

TO SLEEP.

O gentle Sleep! do they belong to thee,These twinklings of oblivion? Thou dost loveTo sit in meekness, like the brooding Dove,A Captive never wishing to be free.This tiresome night, O Sleep! thou art to meA Fly, that up and down himself doth shoveUpon a fretful rivulet, now above,Now on the water vex'd with mockery.I have no pain that calls for patience, no;Hence am I cross and peevish as a child:Am pleas'd by fits to have thee for my foe,Yet ever willing to be reconciled:O gentle Creature! do not use me so,But once and deeply let me be beguiled.
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