Wak’d to think, and thinking slept;
Slept my wearied limbs to rest,
Wak’d with labour in my breast;
Met with sorrows, happ’ly o’er,
Mix’d in pleasures now no more;
Hop’d and fear’d, with equal sense,
Dup’d by many a slight pretence:
Soon shall my soul her veil throw by,
My body with its kindred lie;
Of this I’m certain, but the rest