Chapter XI
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Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast'
Would I were sleep and peace so sweet to rest
_William Shakespeare_.
The innocent sleep,
Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care, t
The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great Nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast.
_William Shakespeare_.
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Sleep-bookChapter XI
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