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A dream, Too flattering-sweet to be substantial. 35-ii. 2.
The innocent sleep; Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care, The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast.
'Tis her breathing that Perfumes the chamber thus: The flame o' the taper Bows toward her; and would under-peep her lids, To see the enclosed lights, now canopied Under these windows: White and azure, laced With blue of heaven's own tinct.b
On her left breast A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops l'the bottom of a cowslip.
Sleave, is unwrought silk. 'Ravell'd sleave of care,'--the brain.
bi.e. The white skin laced with blue veins.
153 Downy sleep, death's counterfeit.
154 O monstrous beast! how like a swine he lies! Grim Death! how foul and loathsome is thine image!
156 As fast lock'd up in sleep, as guiltless labour When it lies starklyd in the traveller's bones.
5-iv. 2. 157 Sleep, gentle sleep, Nature's soft
how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down, And steep my senses in forgetfulness? Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber; Than in the perfumed chambers of the great, Under the canopies of costly state, And lull’d with sounds of sweetest melody? O thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile In loathsome beds; and leav'st the kingly couch, A watch-case, or a common ’larum beli ? Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast Seal
the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains
• Shapes created by the imagination.
Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them
158 O sleep, thou ape of death, lie dull upon
her! And be her sense but as a monument, Thus in a chapel lying!
159 See the life as lively mock'd, as ever Still sleep mock'd death.
160 The golden dew of sleep.
161 Our foster-nurse of nature is repose. 34-iv. 4.
I wish mine eyes Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts: I find, They are inclined to do so. Do not omit the heavy offer of it: It seldom visits sorrow; when it doth, It is a comforter.
17-v. 1. 164
The life of all his blood Is touch'd corruptibly; and his pure
brain (Which some suppose the soul's frail dwelling-house) Doth, by the idle comments that it makes, Foretell the ending of mortality.
165 O vanity of sickness! fierce extremes, In their continuance, will not feel themselves. Death, having prey'd upon the outward parts, Leaves them insensible; and his siege is now Against the mind, the which he pricks and wounds With many legions of strange fantasies; Which, in their throng and press to that last hold, Confound themselves.
166 Thou art come to set mine eye: The tackle of my heart is crack'd and burn'd; And all the shrouds wherewith my life should sail, Are turned to one thread, one little hair: My heart hath one poor string to stay it by, Which holds but till thy news be uttered; And then all this thou seest, is but a clod, And module of confounded royalty. 16-v. 7.
167 Mount, mount, my soul! thy seat is up on high ; Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward here to die.
If I must die,
Like the lily, That once was mistress of the field, and flourish'd, I'll hang my head and perish.
Death, Being an ugly monster, 'Tis strange, he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds, Sweet words: or hath more ministers than we That draw his knives i' the war.
172 Death lies on her, like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.
Nothing in his life Became him like the leaving it: he died As one that had been studied in his death, To throw away the dearest thing he owed, As 'twere a careless trifle.
O, my love! my wife!
8 In allusion to the images made by the witches.