Sleep is pain's easiest salve, and doth fulfill all the offices of death, except to kill
Thou'rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell; And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well And better than thy stroke.
One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
But let them sleep, Lord, and me mourn a space.
But think that we Are but turned aside to sleep.