by Robert Herrick

NIGHT hath no wings to him that cannot sleep,
And time seems then not for to fly, but creep ;
Slowly her chariot drives, as if that she
Had broke her wheel, or crack'd her axletree.
Just so it is with me, who, list'ning, pray
The winds to blow the tedious night away,
That I might see the cheerful, peeping day.
Sick is my heart !   O Saviour ! do Thou please
To make my bed soft in my sicknesses :
Lighten my candle, so that I beneath
Sleep not for ever in the vaults of death ;
Let me Thy voice betimes i' th' morning hear :
Call, and I'll come ; say Thou the when, and where.
Draw me but first, and after Thee I'll run
And make no one stop till my race be done.

Herrick, Robert. Works of Robert Herrick. vol II.
Alfred Pollard, ed.
London, Lawrence & Bullen, 1891. 195.

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