For You And I Are

O Coward Conscience, How Dost Thou Afflict Me!

This Goodly Frame, The Earth, Seems To Me A Sterile Promontory.

I Can Again Thy Former Light Restore, Should I Repent Me: But Once Put Out Thy Light, Thou Cunning'st Pattern Of Excelling Nature, I Know Not Where Is That Promethean Heat That Can Thy Light Relume.

O Sleep, O Gentle Sleep, Nature's Soft Nurse, How Have I Frightened Thee, 1710. That Thou No More Will Weigh My Eyelids Down, And Steep My Senses In Forgetfulness?

You Lack The Season Of All Natures, Sleep.