294
Tixall Poetry.
To Sleep.
Sleep, the best ease of the most troubled minde,
Rest of our labours, nurse of human kinde,
Why so unkind to me; false joyes to frame,
When the most true partake too much of dreame?
Waking, I see how extreame false they are,
Which give us joy to purchase greater care.
Then let me wake, or ever have such dreames,
And not by contradiction know extreames.
Rest of our labours, nurse of human kinde,
Why so unkind to me; false joyes to frame,
When the most true partake too much of dreame?
Waking, I see how extreame false they are,
Which give us joy to purchase greater care.
Then let me wake, or ever have such dreames,
And not by contradiction know extreames.
