Poetry Archives

Charm me asleep, and melt me so
  With thy delicious numbers,
That, being ravish’d, hence I go
  Away in easy slumbers.
      Ease my sick head,
      And make my bed,
  Thou power that canst sever
      From me this ill,
      And quickly still,
      Though thou not kill
        My fever.

Thou sweetly canst convert the same
  From a consuming fire
Into a gentle licking flame,
  And make it thus expire.
      Then make me weep
      My pains asleep;
And give me such reposes
      That I, poor I,
      May think thereby
      I live and die
        ‘Mongst roses.

Fall on me like the silent dew,
  Or like those maiden showers
Which, by the peep of day, do strew
  A baptim o’er the flowers.
      Melt, melt my pains
      With thy soft strains;
That, having ease me given,
      With full delight
      I leave this light,
      And take my flight
        For Heaven.