Classic Poem

One night all tired with the weary day,
And with my tedious selfe, I went to lay
My fruitlesse Cares
And needlesse feares
Asleep.
The Curtaines of the Bed, and of mine Eyes
Being drawne, I hop'd no trouble would surprise
That Rest which now
'Gan on my Brow
To creep.

When loe a little flie, lesse than its Name
(It was a Gnat) with angry Murmur came.
About She flew
And lowder grew
Whilst I
Faine would have scorn'd the silly Thing, and slept
Out all its Noise; I resolute silence kept,
And laboured so
To overthrow
The Flie.

But still with sharp Alarms vexatious She
Or challenged, or rather mocked Me.
Angry at last
About I cast
My Hand.

'Twas well Night would not let me blush, nor see
With whom I fought; And yet though feeble She
Nor Her nor my
Owne Wrath could I
Command.

Away She flies, and Her owne Triumph sings
I being left to fight with idler Things,
A feeble pair
My Selfe and Aire.
How true
A worme is Man, whom flies their sport can make!
Poor worme; true Rest in no Bed can he take,
But one of Earth
Whence He came forth
And grew.

For there None but his silent Sisters be,
Wormes of as true and genuine Earth as He,
Which from the same
Corruption came:
And there
Though on his Eyes they feed, though on his Heart,
They neither vex nor wake Him; every part
Rests in sound sleep,
And out doth keep