Sleep
By Thomas Sackville, Earl of Dorset (1536–1608)

BY him lay heavy Sleep, the cousin of Death,
Flat on the ground, and still as any stone,
A very corpse, save yielding forth a breath:
Small keep took he, whom Fortune frownèd on,
Or whom she lifted up into the throne
Of high renown: but as a living death,
So, dead live, of life he drew the breath.