MADRIGALL

THe Ivory, Corrall, Gold,
Of brest, of lip, of haire,
So lively Sleep doth show to inward sight,
That wake I thinke I hold
No Shadow, but my Faire:
My selfe so to deceive
With long-shut Eyes I shun the irkesome Light.
Such pleasure here I have
Delighting in false gleames,
If Death Sleeps Brother be,
And Soules bereft of sense have so sweet Dreames,
How could I wish thus still to dreame and dye.