I have a soul of lead So stakes me to the ground I cannot move.
This thought is as a death.
We may outrun By violent swiftness And lose by over-running.
Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies Which busy care draws in the brains of men; Therefore thou sleep'st so sound.
Heaven take my soul, and England keep my bones!
O polished perturbation! golden care! That keep'st the ports of slumber open wide To many a watchful night.