Luyện nghe bài hát Come, heavy sleep - First Booke of Songes, 1597, no20

Come sleepe the image of true death;
And close up these my weary weeping
Whose spring of tears doth my vitall breath,
And tears my hart with sigh swoln cries:
Come and posses my tired thoughts soul,
That living dies, thou on me be stoule.

Come of my end, and shape of rest,
Allied to death, child to his night:
thou and charme these rebels in my breast,
Whose waking fancies doe my affright.
O sweet sleepe; come, or I die for ever:
Come ere my last comes, or come never.