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TO THE MORNING. SATISFACTION FOR SLEEP, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: What succour can I hope the muse will send
Last Line: Shut in their teares; shut out their miseryes.
Subject(s): Sleep


What succour can I hope the Muse will send
Whose drowsinesse hath wrong'd the Muses friend?
What hope Aurora to propitiate thee,
Unlesse the Muse sing my Apology?
O in that morning of my shame! when I
Lay folded up in sleepes captivity;
How at the sight did'st Thou draw back thine Eyes,
Into thy modest veyle? how did'st thou rise
Twice di'd in thine owne blushes, and did'st run
To draw the Curtaines, and awake the Sun?
Who rowzing his illustrious tresses came,
And seeing the loath'd object, hid for shame
His head in thy faire Bosome, and still hides
Mee from his Patronage; I pray, he chides:
And pointing to dull Morpheus, bids me take
My owne Apollo, try if I can make
His Lethe be my Helicon: and see
If Morpheus have a Muse to wait on mee.
Hence 'tis my humble fancy finds no wings,
No nimble rapture starts to Heaven and brings
Enthusiasticke flames, such as can give
Marrow to my plumpe Genius, make it live
Drest in the glorious madnesse of a Muse,
Whose feet can walke the milky way, and chuse
Her starry throne; whose holy heats can warme
The Grave, and hold up an exalted arme
To lift me from my lazy Urne, to climbe
Upon the stooped shoulders of old Time;
And trace Eternity -- But all is dead,
All these delicious hopes are buried,
In the deepe wrinckles of his angry brow,
Where mercy cannot find them: but o thou
Bright Lady of the Morne, pitty doth lye
So warme in thy soft Brest it cannot dye.
Have mercy then, and when he next shall rise
O meet the angry God, invade his Eyes,
And stroake his radiant Cheekes; one timely kisse
Will kill his anger, and revive my blisse.
So to the treasure of thy pearly deaw
Thrice will I pay three Teares, to show how true
My griefe is; so my wakefull lay shall knocke
At th' Orientall Gates; and duly mocke
The early Larkes shrill Orizons to be
An Anthem at the Dayes Nativitie.
And the same rosie-fingerd hand of thine,
That shutts Nights dying eyes, shall open mine.
But thou, faint God of sleepe, forget that I
Was ever knowne to be thy votery.
No more my pillow shall thine Altar be,
Nor will I offer any more to thee
My selfe a melting sacrifice; I'me borne
Againe a fresh Child of the Buxome Morne,
Heire of the Suns first Beames; why threat'st thou so?
Why dost thou shake thy leaden Scepter? goe,
Bestow thy Poppy upon wakefull woe
Sicknesse, and sorrow, whose pale lidds ne're know
Thy downy finger, dwell upon their Eyes,
Shut in their Teares; Shut out their miseryes.





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