Why should we not, as well, desire death,
As sleep? No difference, but a little breath;
'Tis all but rest; 'tis all but a releasing
Our tired limbs; why then not alike pleasing?
Being burthened with the sorrows of the day,
We wish for night; which, being come, we lay
Our bodies down; yet when our very breath
Is irksome to us, we're afraid of death:
Our sleep is oft accompanied with frights,
Distracting dreams and dangers of the nights;
When in the sheets of death, our bodies sure
From all such evils, and we sleep secure:
What matter, down, or earth? what boots it whether?
Alas, our body's sensible of neither:
Things that are senseless, feel nor pains nor ease;
Tell me; and why not worms as well as fleas?
In sleep, we know not whether our closed eyes
Shall ever wake; from death we're sure to rise:
Aye, but 'tis long first; O, is that our fears?
Dare we trust God for nights? and not for years?