And unto Morpheus comes, whom drowned deepe
In drowsie fit he findes: of nothing he takes keepe.
XLI
And more, to lulle him in his slumber soft,[°]
A trickling streame from high rock tumbling downe,
And ever-drizling raine upon the loft,
Mixt with a murmuring winde, much like the sowne
Of swarming Bees, did cast him in a swowne:
No other noyse, nor peoples troublous cryes,