TO SLEEP
O GENTLE SLEEP! do they belong to thee, These twinklings of oblivion? Thou dost love To sit in meekness, like the brooding Dove, A captive never wishing to be free. This tiresome night, O Sleep! thou art to me A Fly, that up and down himself doth shove Upon a fretful rivulet, now above Now on the water vexed with mockery. I have no pain that calls for patience, no; Hence am I cross and peevish as a child: 10 Am pleased by fits to have thee for my foe, Yet ever willing to be reconciled: O gentle Creature! do not use me so, But once and deeply let me be beguiled. 1806.