Book I, 41: On Death

Why should we not, as well, desier Death,
As Sleep? No diffrence, but a little Breath:
'Tis all but Rest; 'tis all but a Releasing
Our tyred lims; Why then not alike pleasing?
Being burthen'd with the sorrowes of the Day,
We wish for night; which, being come, we lay
Our Bodies downe; yet when our very Breath
Is yrkesome to us, w'are affraid of Death:
Our Sleepe is oft accompanied with rights,
Distracting Dreames and dangers of the nights;
When in the Sheets of Death, our Bodie's sure
From all such Evils, and we sleepe secure:
What matter, Doune, or Earth? what boots it whether?
Alas, Our Bodye's sensible of neither:
Things that are senslesse feele nor paynes nor ease;
Tell me; and why not Wormes as well as Fleas?
In Sleepe, we know not whether our clos'd eyes
Shall ever wake; from Death w'are sure to rise:
I, but 'tis long first: O, is that our feares?
Dare we trust God for Nights? and not for Yeares?