THE CHILD IN THE STORY GOES TO BED

I prythee, Nurse, come smooth my hair,

And prythee, Nurse, unloose my shoe,

And trimly turn my silken sheet

Upon my quilt of gentle blue.

My pillow sweet of lavender

Smooth with an amiable hand,

And may the dark pass peacefully by

As in the hour-glass droops the sand.

Prepare my cornered manchet sweet,

And in my little crystal cup

Pour out the blithe and flowering mead

That forthwith I may sup.

Withdraw my curtains from the night,

And let the crispèd crescent shine

Upon my eyelids while I sleep,

And soothe me with her beams benign.

Dark looks the forest far-away;

O, listen! through its empty dales

Rings from the solemn echoing boughs

The music of its nightingales.

Now quench my silver lamp, prythee,

And bid the harpers harp that tune

Fairies which haunt the meadowlands

Sing clearly to the stars of June.

And bid them play, though I in dreams

No longer heed their pining strains,

For I would not to silence wake

When slumber o'er my senses wanes.

You Angels bright who me defend,

Enshadow me with curvèd wing,

And keep me in the darksome night.

Till dawn another day do bring.