Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, TO SLEEP, WHEN SICK OF A FEVER, by PHILIP AYRES



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TO SLEEP, WHEN SICK OF A FEVER, by             Poet's Biography
First Line: Happy are we who when our senses tire
Last Line: Whom none could e'er but with clos'd eyelids see.
Subject(s): Sickness; Sleep; Illness


HAPPY are we who when our senses tire,
Can slack the chain of thought, and check Desire.
Nature her works does in perfection frame,
Rarely producing any weak, or lame;

She looks on Man with kindest Influence,
Does for one ill a thousand goods dispence;
Sleep, blessed Sleep she gave our lab'ring eyes.
Oh how I now those happy minutes prize!

This rest, our Life's cessation we may call,
The ease of Toil, of Care the interval.
For such refreshment we from Sleep obtain,
That we with pleasure fall to work again.

To minds afflicted, Sleep a cure imparts,
Pouring its sov'reign balsam on our hearts.
When wounds or sharp distempers rage, and sting,
Kind slumbers then some welcome respites bring:

But waking kept by an excess of grief,
We from Eternal Sleep expect relief.
So wretched I, tormented to Despair,
With pain my body, and my soul with Care,

Implore thy comfort, gentle Deity,
Whom none could e'er but with clos'd eyelids see.





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