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.

Come, I say, thou powerful god,

And thy leaden charming-rod,

Dipt in the Lethean lake,

O’er his wakeful temples shake,

Lest he should sleep and never wake.

Nature, alas! why art thou so

ObligÈd to thy greatest foe?

Sleep that is thy great repast,

Yet of death it bears a taste,

And both are the same thing at last.