To a young Lady that constantly slept at Church

I Often wonder'd, as I lay,
Wishing for my Books, and Day,
What Hag should sit upon my Breast,
That I could neither speak nor rest;
What could that Stranger Morpheus keep
From his nightly Tribute, Sleep.

When Love, with an enchanted Key,
Thus unlock'd the Mystery:
Sleep saw, and not without surprize,
The Charms of Idera's piercing Eyes;
Then paid a Visit to her Heart,
And now he knows not how to part.

But here possest with Jealousie,
Himself the Watch of her fair Eye,
Lest with Religion tempting Jove
Should anticipate her Love,
From her Devotion in the day,
Resolves to ravish her away.

Will seize on Thyrsi's heart no more,
Stand Centry only at her door:
Nor will open Casements trust,
(Suspicious are the Rapes of Lust)
But in her Bath a sweating lies,
I'th' Exhalations of her Eyes.

Yet if 't be she does steal my sleep,
If she my Senses waking keep,
Let those stolen Goods be sweet,
Prosp'rous the Pillage of her Sheet.
Sleep still refresh her flagrant Beams,
Till with thee she shares my Dreams.

Sleep still be happy, still be proud,
To bear the Office of a Cloud:
For if her Sun thus raging burns,
Unless thy Fan the scorching Fervour turns:
My Nest will e'en be set on fire,
And then the Phoenix must expire.