The thought of what’s at hand forbids,
Sound sleep to light upon his lids.
Three times he rose, with anxious eye,
The beams of morning to descry—
Three times he rose,—but all in vain;—
Three times he went to bed again.
At length, according to report,
He slept, and dreamt he was at court,
Sceptres and mitres seem’d to rise
Before the D—ct—r’s wond’ring eyes: