We should every night call ourselves to an account: What infirmity have I mastered today? What passions opposed! What temptation resisted? What virtue acquired?
The camel, at the close of day, Kneels down upon the sandy plain To have his burden lifted off And rest again. My soul, thou too should to thy knees When daylight draweth to a close, And let thy Master lift the load And grant repose.
Come Sleep! Oh Sleep, the certain knot of peace, The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, The indifferent judge between the high and low.
It is a delicious moment, certainly, that of being well-nestled in bed and feeling that you shall drop gently to sleep. The good is to come, not past; the limbs are tired enough to render the remaining in one posture delightful; the labor of the day is gone.
Sleep, Silence's child, sweet father of soft rest, Prince whose approach peace to all mortals brings, Indifferent host to shepherds and kings, Sole comforter to minds with grief oppressed.
Sleep, that knits up the ravell'd slave 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.