And the night is a-cold；

    Come hither， Sleep，

    And my griefs unfold：

    But lo！ the morning peeps

    Over the eastern steeps，

    And the rustling beds of dawn

    The earth do scorn.

    Lo！ to the vault

    Of pavèd heaven，

    With sorrow fraught

    My notes are driven：

    They strike the ear of night，

    Make weep the eyes of day；

    They make made the roaring winds，

    And with tempests play.

    Like a fiend in a cloud，

    With howling woe

    After night I do crowd，

    And with night will go；

    I turn my back to the east

    From whence comforts have increas'd

    For light doth seize my brain

    With frantic pain.