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]1
The winds to blow the tedious night [away,
That I might see the cheerful, peeping day.]2
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.]3