The poets are generally well affected to sleep: as men who think with
vigour, they require respite from thought; and gladly resign themselves
to that gentle power, who not only bestows rest, but frequently leads
them to happier regions, where patrons are always kind, and audiences
are always candid; where they are feasted in the bowers of imagination,
and crowned with flowers divested of their prickles, and laurels of
unfading verdure.

The more refined and penetrating part of mankind, who take wide surveys
of the wilds of life, who see the innumerable terrours and distresses
that are perpetually preying on the heart of man, and discern with
unhappy perspicuity, calamities yet latent in their causes, are glad to
close their eyes upon the gloomy prospect, and lose in a short
insensibility the remembrance of others' miseries and their own. The
hero has no higher hope, than that, after having routed legions after
legions, and added kingdom to kingdom, he shall retire to milder
happiness, and close his days in social festivity. The wit or the sage
can expect no greater happiness, than that, after having harassed his
reason in deep researches, and fatigued his fancy in boundless
excursions, he shall sink at night in the tranquillity of sleep.

The poets, among all those that enjoy the blessings of sleep, have been
least ashamed to acknowledge their benefactor. How much Statius
considered the evils of life as assuaged and softened by the balm of
slumber, we may discover by that pathetick invocation, which he poured
out in his waking nights: and that Cowley, among the other felicities of
his darling solitude, did not forget to number the privilege of sleeping
without disturbance, we may learn from the rank that he assigns among
the gifts of nature to the poppy, "which is scattered," says he, "over