Lest drowsy Morpheus[185]
His slumb’ry kingdoms planted hath
With dews unbeauteous.[186]
O gods above that rule the skies:
Ye babes that brag in bliss:
Ye goddesses, ye Graces, you,
What burning brunt is this?
Bend down your ire, destroy me quick.
Or else to grant me grace,
No more, but that my burning breast