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Edmund Spenser

The House of Sleep

Ay me! how many perils doe enfold

The righteous man, to make him daily fall.

Who will not mercie unto others show,

How can he mercie ever hope to have?

I was promised on a time

To have reason for my rhyme;

From that time unto this season

I received nor rhyme nor reason.

And more to lull him in his slumber soft,

A trickling stream from high rock tumbling down,

And ever drizzling rain upon the loft,

Mixed with a murmuring wind much like the sound

Of swarming bees, did cast him in a swoon.

No other noise, nor people's troublous cries

As still are wont t' annoy the walled town

Might there be heard; but careless Quiet lies,

Wrapt in eternal silence, far from enemies.