Classic Poem

Come heauy sleepe, the Image of true death:
And close vp these my weary weeping eyes,
Whose spring of tears doth stop my vitall breath,
And tears my hart with sorrows sigh swoln crys:
Com & posses' my tired thoghts, worne soule,
That liuing dies, till thou on me be stoule.

Come shadow of my end: and shape of rest,
Alied to death, child to this black fast night,
Come thou and charme these rebels in my brest,
Whose waking fancies doth my mind affright.
O come sweet sleepe, come or I die for euer,
come neuer.