Come heavy sleepe the image of true death

And close up these my weary weeping eyes

Whose spring of tears doth stop my vitall breath

And tears my hart with sorrows sigh swoln cries

Come and posses my tired thoughts worn soul

That living dies, that living dies, that living dies, till thou on me be stoule

Come and posses my tired thoughts worn soul

That living dies, that living dies, that living dies, till thou on me be stoule

Come shape of rest, and shadow of my end, and shape of rest

Allied to death, child to his black-fac'd, his black-fac'd night:

Come thou and charme these rebels in my breast

Whose waking fancies doe my mind affright

O come sweet sleepe; come, or I die for ever:

Come ere my last comes

Come ere my last sleepe comes

Or come

Or come never