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Robert Herrick - To His Sweet Saviour
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Night hath no wings, to him that cannot sleep; 
And Time seems then, not for to fly, but creep; 
Slowly her chariot drives as if that she 
Had broke her wheel, or crackt her axletree. 
Just so it is with me who, list`ning, pray 
The winds to blow the tedious night away, 
That I might see the cheerful peeping day. 
Sick is my heart; O Saviour! do Thou please 
To make my bed soft in my sicknesses; 
Lighten my candle, so that I beneath 
Sleep not for ever in the vaults of death; 
Let me Thy voice betimes i`th` morning hear; 
Call, and I`ll come; say Thou the when and where; 
Draw me but first, and after Thee I`ll run, 
And make no one stop, till my race be done.
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