O Gentle Sleep! Do They Belong To Thee, These Twinklings Of Oblivion? Thou Dost Love To Sit In Meekness, Like The Brooding Dove, A Captive Never Wishing To Be Free. This Tiresome Night, O Sleep! Thou Art To Me A Fly, That Up And Down Himself Doth Shove Upon A Fretful Rivulet, Now Above Now On The Water Vexed With Mockery. I Have No Pain That Calls For Patience, No; Hence Am I Cross And Peevish As A Child: Am Pleased By Fits To Have Thee For My Foe, Yet Ever Willing To Be Reconciled: O Gentle Creature! Do Not Use Me So, But Once And Deeply Let Me Be Beguiled.