Mistakenly have taken up the rod
Which heaven, they think, has put into their hands.
Seg. I think I soon shall have to try again—
Sleep has not yet done with me.
Clo. Such a sleep.
Take my advice—’tis early yet—the sun
Scarce up above the mountain; go within,
And if the night deceived you, try anew
With morning; morning dreams they say come true.
Seg. Oh, rather pray for me a sleep so fast