To Sleep (When Sick of a Fever)

HAppy are we who when our Senses tire,
Can slack the Chain of Thought, & 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 Intervall.
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 Balsom 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 Eye-lids see.