Chapter IX

Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes,
Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose
On this afflicted prince; fall like a cloud
In gentle showers; give nothing that is loud
Or painful to his slumbers,--easy, sweet
And as a purling stream, thou son of Night,
Pass by his troubled senses; sing his pain
Like hollow murmuring wind or silver rain,
Into this prince gently, oh gently, slide
And kiss him into slumbers like a bride.

_John Fletcher_.