Better than I their quiver knows them not:
Hapless is he that all the night lies quiet.
And slumbering, thinks himself much blessèd by it.40
Fool, what is sleep but image of cold death,
Long shalt thou rest when Fates expire thy breath.
But me let crafty damsel's words deceive,
Great joys by hope I inly shall conceive.
Now let her flatter me, now chide me hard,
Let me[286] enjoy her oft, oft be debarred.
Cupid, by thee, Mars in great doubt doth trample,