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O SLEEP, O gentle Sleep,

Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,

That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down,

And steep my senses in forgetfulness?

Why rather, Sleep, ly'st thou in smoky cribs,

Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee,

And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber; Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great,

Under the canopies of costly state,

And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody?

O thou dull god, why ly'st thou with the vile,

In loathsome beds; and leav'st the kingly couch,
A watch-case, or a common larum-bell?

Wilt thou, upon the high and giddy mast,

Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains
In cradle of the rude imperious surge;

And in the visitation of the winds,



Ὦ ΦΙΛΟΝ Ὕπνου θέλγητρον, ὃς βροτῶν δέμας
μαλακῶς ἀτάλλεις, πῶς ποτ' ἐκφοβῶν σ' ἐμῆς
εὐνῆς ἀπήλασ ̓; οὐ γὰρ ἡδέως ἔτι

βλέφαρα βαρύνεις, οὐδ ̓, ἀναψύχων πόνου,
τέγγεις φρένας μοι νηδύμῳ λήθῃ κακῶν.
τί σ', ἐν στέγαισι πολυκάπνοισι κείμενον,
νυχίᾳ, βοῶντες ὀξὺ, κοιμίζουσ ̓ ἐπὶ
κώνωπες, ἐν δὲ στιβάσιν ἀστρωτοῖς πεσὼν
φιλεῖς καθεύδειν μᾶλλον, ἢ ὂν θυώδεσι
θαλάμοις τυράννων, πολυτελῶν σκηνῶν ὕπο,
θελγομένος ὕμνων ὄμμαθ ̓ ἡδίστῳ μέλει;
φεῦ! σκαιὸν λέγω σε θεὸν, ὃς αὐχμωδοῦς ἔχει
στρωμνῆς πενήτων, τὸν δὲ βασιλικόν λέχος
ἔχοντ ̓ ἄϋπνον ἐκλέλοιπας, ὡς ὅταν



κώδων ̓ ἐν ἄστει πάννυχος τηρῇ φύλαξ·

τί δ'; οὐκ ἐφ ̓ ὑψηλῷ τε καὶ δυσεμβάτῳ
ἱστῷ, πέδησας βλέφαρα παιδὶ ναυβάτῃ,
ὡς τ ̓ ἐν λίκνῳ, κνώσσοντ ̓ ἐδίνησας, βρέφος,
αὐτῇ κλύδωνος ἁλμυροῦ τρικυμίᾳ ;


καὶ ταῦθ ̓, ὅτ ̓ ἄνεμος, ἀγρίᾳ μιχθεὶς ἁλὶ,


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“Ὣς φαμένα, δίνασε σάκος μέγα· τοὺς δ ̓ ἔλαβ ̓ ὕπνος.”

Theocr. Idyll. 24.

Who take the ruffian billows by the top,

Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them
With deaf'ning clamours in the slippery clouds,
That, with the hurly, death itself awakes?
Canst thou, O partial Sleep! give thy repose
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude,
And, in the calmest and most stillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot,
Deny it to a king?




CROMWELL, I did not think to shed a tear

In all my miseries; but thou hast forc'd me,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.
Let's dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell!
And-when I am forgotten, as I shall be,

And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention
Of me more must be heard of—say, I taught thee-
Say, Wolsey-that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour-

κυρτῶν λαβών που κυμάτων πελωρίας
ἐπῃρε κορυφὰς, ἐν δ ̓ ὑγραῖσιν αἰθέρος
νεφέλαισιν ἐστήριξε, φρικώδες βρέμων,
ὥστ ̓ αὐτὸν Αΐδην ἐξεγείρεσθαι κτύπῳ;
οὔκουν πέφυκας ἄδικος, ὃς σὰ δῶρ ̓, Ὕπνε,
τοίᾳδ ̓ ἐν ὥρᾳ, διαβρόχῳ ναύτῃ νέμεις,
ἄνακτι δ ̓, ὅσπερ ξύμμαχον τὴν νύκτ ̓ ἔχει,
σιγήν τε, χω, τι κῶμ ̓ ἄγειν κατ ̓ ὀμμάτων
φιλεῖ μάλιστα, ταὐτὰ δωρεῖσθαι φθονεῖς;




ΚΡΟΜΥΕΛΛ ̓, ἐγὼ μὲν οὐκ ἔφην ἀπ ̓ ὀμμάτων
δάκρυα βαλεῖν ποτ', οὐδ ̓ ἐν ἐσχάτῳ κακοῦ·
τὸ σὸν δ ̓ ἀληθές μ', οἵ τε γενναῖοι λόγοι,
νίκησαν, ὥστε πρὸς γυναικεῖον τρέπειν.
νῦν οὖν τὰ δάκρυ ̓ ἐξομόρξωμεν· σὺ δὲ,
Κρομύελλε φίλτατ', ἐς τόσονδ ̓ ἄκουέ μου·
ὅταν δὲ λήθης, ὥστε τεύξομαι, τύχω,
κρυφθῶ δ' ἐν ὑγροῖς ἠδ ̓ ἀναισθήτοις λίθοις,
ἵν ̓ οὐ λόγος τις, οὐδ ̓ ἐμοῦ μνήμη ποτὲ
ἔσται τολοιπὸν δή τότ ̓ ἐν φίλοις λόγους
τοίουσδε λέξεις• Ταῦτ ̓ ἐμοὶ παρήνεσε
Βολσεῖος, αὐτὸς πολυπλάνου τιμῆς ποτὲ
ὁδοὺς ἐπελθὼν, τό, τε κλέους δυσχείμερον
κῦμ ̓ ἐκπεράσας, κἀξερευνήσας μυχούς

ν. 28. θελγομένων ἄξει κώμα κατὰ βλεφάρων.



Plato, apud Brunck. Anthol. tom. i. p. 171. ν. 8. ὑγρὰν χέρα pro frigida. Eur. Phœn. 1453.

Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ;
A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it.
Mark but my fall, and that that ruin'd me.

Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition!
By that sin fell the angels. How can man, then,
(Though th' image of his Maker) hope to win by 't?
Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee;
Corruption wins not more than honesty.

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,

To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not.
Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,
Thy God's, and truth's: then if thou fall'st, O Cromwell,
Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king;
And-Pr'ythee, lead me in:

There take an inventory of all I have,

To the last penny; 'tis the king's: my robe,
And my integrity to heaven, is all

I dare now call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell,
Had I but serv'd my God with half the zeal
I serv'd my king, He would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies!

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