Sleep

Others may praise thee, Sleep; so will not I.
I loathe thee from the. bottom of my heart.
Thou art a dull and ill-conceived lie,
To turn quick nature into cunning art.

"The sleeping and the dead are pictures." Yea,
I love not pictures eyeless, soulless, still,
Mere portraits of the perishable clay,
Bereft of reason, passion, strength, and will.

Others may woo thee, Sleep; so will not I.
Dear is each minute of my conscious breath,
Hard fate, that, ere the time be come to die,
Myself, to live, must nightly mimic death.