A SONG.
Reading edition
1 Morpheus! the humble god, that dwells In cottages and smoky cells, Hates gilded roofs and beds of down; And though he fears no prince's frown, Flies from the circle of a crown:
2 Come, I say, thou powerful god, And thy leaden charming rod, Dipp'd in the Lethean lake, O'er his wakeful temples shake, Lest he should sleep, and never wake.
3 Nature, (alas!) why art thou so Obligèd to thy greatest foe? Sleep that is thy best repast, Yet of death it bears a taste, And both are the same thing at last.