The ryver of forgetfulnesse, which ronneth trickling so
Uppon the little pebble stones which in the channell lye,
That unto sleepe a great deale more it dooth provoke thereby.
Before the entry of the Cave, there growes of Poppye store,
With seeded heades, and other weedes innumerable more,
Out of the milkye jewce of which the night dooth gather sleepes,
And over all the shadowed earth with dankish deawe them dreepes.
Bycause the craking hindges of the doore no noyse should make,
There is no doore in all the house, nor porter at the gate.
Amid the Cave, of Ebonye a bedsted standeth hye,
And on the same a bed of downe with keeverings blacke dooth lye:
In which the drowzye God of sleepe his lither limbes dooth rest.
About him, forging sundrye shapes as many dreames lye prest
As eares of come doo stand in feeldes in harvest tyme, or leaves
Doo grow on trees, or sea to shore of sandye cinder heaves.
As soone as Iris came within this house, and with her hand
Had put asyde the dazeling dreames that in her way did stand,
The brightnesse of her robe through all the sacred house did shine.
The God of sleepe scarce able for to rayse his heavy eyen,
A three or fowre tymes at the least did fall ageine to rest,
And with his nodding head did knocke his chinne ageinst his brest.
At length he shaking of himselfe, uppon his elbowe leande.
And though he knew for what shee came: he askt her what shee meand.
O sleepe (quoth shee,) the rest of things, O gentlest of the Goddes,
Sweete sleepe, the peace of mynd, with whom crookt care is aye at oddes:
Which cherrishest mennes weery limbes appalld with toling sore,
And makest them as fresh to woork and lustye as beefore,
Commaund a dreame that in theyr kyndes can every thing expresse,
To Trachine, Hercles towne, himself this instant to addresse.
And let him lively counterfet to Queene Alcyonea
The image of her husband who is drowned in the sea
By shipwrecke. Juno willeth so. Her message beeing told,
Dame Iris went her way. Shee could her eyes no longer hold
From sleepe. But when shee felt it come shee fled that instant tyme,
And by the boawe that brought her downe to heaven ageine did clyme.
Among a thousand sonnes and mo that father slomber had
He calld up Morph, the feyner of mannes shape, a craftye lad.
Page:Metamorphoses (Ovid, 1567).djvu/313
Jump to navigation
Jump to search
This page needs to be proofread.