It is but sleepe, for to and froe
doothe goe and come his breathe.

Let tyme bee had of quietnesse,
that thus by sleepe and reste

Greate force of his disease subdewde,
may ease his greeved breste.

Remove his weapons servantes, least
he madde gette them agayne.

CHORUS

LEt th’ayre complain, & eke ye parent great

of haughty sky, & fertile land throughout,

And wandryng wave of ever mouing freate.

And thow before them all, which lands about

And train of sea thy beams abroad dost throe

with glyttryng face, & makst ye night to flee,

O fervent Titan: bothe thy settyngs loe

and rysyng, hath Alcides scene with thee:

& known likewise he hath thy howsen twayn.

from so great yls release ye nowe his brest,

O godds release: to better turne agayne

his ryghter mynde. and thow O tamer best

O sleepe of toyles, the quietnesse of mynde,

of all the lyfe of man the better parte,

O of thy mother astrey wynged kynde,

of hard and pinyng death that brother arte,

With truth mingling the false, of after state

The sure, but eke the worste foreteller yet:

O father of all thynges, of lyfe the gate,

Of light the rest, of nyght and felowe fytte,

that comst to kyng, and servant equallye,

And gentlye cherysshest who weerye bee,

All mankynde loe that dredfull is to dye,

thou doost constrain long deth to learn by thee,

keepe him fast bound with heavy slepe opprest,

Let slomber depe his limmes untamed bynde,

Nor sooner leave his unryght ragyng brest,

The former mid his course again may fynd.

Lo layd on ground with lull fierce hart yet styll

His cruell sleepes he turnes: and not yet is

The plague subdewde of so great raging yll:

And on great clubbe the weery head of his

He woont to lay, dothe seeke ye staffe to fynde

With empty hand, his armes owt castig yet

withmoving vayn: nor yet all rage of mynde

he hath laid down: but, as with southwind gret

The wane once vext, yet after kepeth styll

his ragyng long, & though the wind now be

Asswaged, swells. shake of these madde & yll

tossyngs of mynde, returne let pietee,

And vertue to the man, ells let be so

his mynd with moving mad tost every way:

Let errour blynde, where it begoon hath, go.

for nowght els now but only madnes may

Thee gyltlesse make: in next estate it stands

to hurtles hands, thy mischief not to knowe.

Now strooken let with Hercules his hands

thy bosoms sound: thyne armes y world alow

wer wont to bear, let grevous strips now smite

with conquryng hand: & loude complaining cries

Let th’aire now here: let of dark pole & night

the quene them heare, & who ful fiersely lyes

That bears his necks in mighty chains fast

low lurking Cerberus in depest cave. (bound,

Let Chaos all with clamour sad resound,

and of broade sea wide open wafting wave.

And th’ayre that felt thy weapons better yet,