Then blessings on thee, my afternoon torpor Thou makest a prince of a mental porpor.

Sleeping is no mean art: for its sake one must stay awake all day.

He sleeps well who knows not that he sleeps ill.

Sleep does make us all equal, it seems to me, like his big brother-Death.

Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care, The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast.

Weariness Can snore upon the flint when resty sloth Finds the down pillow hard.

We still think of human disease as the work of an organized, modernized kind of demonology, in which the bacteria are the most visible and centrally placed of our adversaries. We assume that they must somehow relish what they do.

In Sleep we lie all naked and alone, in Sleep we are united at the heart of night and darkness, and we are strange and beautiful asleep; for we are dying in the darkness, and we know no death.

Sleep came slower than a frigid woman.

The fate of the worm refutes the pretended ethical teaching of the proverb, which assumes to illustrate the advantage of early rising and does so by showing how dangerous it is.