To his sweet saviour

Night hath no wings to him that cannot sleep,

And time seems then not for to fly, but creep;

Slowly her chariot drives, as if that she

Had broke her [wheel, or crack'd her axletree.

Just so it is with me, who, list'ning, pray]

The winds to blow the tedious night [away,

That I might see the cheerful, peeping day.]

Sick is my heart! O Saviour! do Thou please

To make my bed soft in my sicknesses:

Lighten my candle, so that I beneath

Sleep not for ever in the vaults of death;

Let me Thy voice betimes i' th' morning hear:

Call, and I'll come; say Thou the when, and where.

[Draw me but first, and after Thee I'll run

And make no one stop till my race be done.]