Come heavy sleepe the image of true death;
And close up these my weary weeping eyes:
Whose spring of tears doth stop my vitall breath,
And tears my hart with sorrows sigh swoln cries:
Come and posses my tired thoughts worn soul,
That living dies, till thou on me be stoule.
Come shadow of my end, and shape of rest,
Allied to death, child to his blackfac'd night:
Come thou and charme these rebels in my breast,
Whose waking fancies doe my mind affright.
O come sweet sleepe; come, or I die for ever:
Come ere my last sleepe comes, or come never.
- Can She Excuse My Wrongs?
- 'Right Honorable: As I Have Bin Most Bound Unto Your Honor...'
- Flow, My Tears (Lachrimae)
- Have You Seen The Bright Lily Grow
- '...Then In Time Passing On Mr. Johnson Died...'
- The Most High And Mighty Christianus The Fourth, King Of Denmark, His Galliard
- The Lowest Trees Have Tops
- '...And According As I Desired Ther Cam A Letter...'
- Fine Knacks For Ladies
- '...From Thenc I Went To Landgrave Of Hessen...'
- Come, Heavy Sleep
- Forlorn Hope Fancy
- '...And From Thence I Had Great Desire To See Italy...'
- Come Again
- Wilt Thou Unkind Thus Reave Me
- '...After My Departures I Caled To Mynde Our Conference...'
- Weep You No More, Sad Fountain
- My Lord Willoughby's Welcome Home
- Clear Or Cloudy
- '...Men Say That The Kinge Of Spain Is Making Gret Preparation...'
- In Darkness Let Me Dwell