From Louise Labe, 1555

(Sapphics)

When to my lone soft bed at eve returning Sweet desir'd sleep already stealeth o'er me, My spirit flīeth to the fairy-land of her tyrannous love.

Him then I think fondly to kiss, to hold him Frankly then to my bosom; I that all day Have lookèd for[v]him suffering, repining, yea many long days.

O blessèd sleep, with flatteries beguile me; So,[v]if I ne'er may[v]of a surety have[v]him, Grant to my poor soul amorous the dark gift of this illusion.

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