Sleepe, Silence' Child, sweet Father of soft Rest,
Prince, whose Approach Peace to all Mortals brings,
Indifferent Host to Shepheards and to Kings,
Sole Comforter of Minds with Griefe opprest;
Loe, by thy charming Rod all breathing things,
Lie slumbring, with forgetfulnesse possest,
And yet o're me to spred thy drowsie Wings
Thou spares, (alas) who cannot be thy Guest.
Since I am thine, O come, but with that Face
To inward Light which thou art wont to show,
With fained Solace ease a true felt Woe,
Or if, deafe God thou doe denie that Grace,
Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt bequeath--
I long to kisse the Image of my Death.