I would this music would come. I am advised
to give her music a-mornings; they say it will
Take thy lute, wench. My soul grows sad with troubles.
Sing, and disperse ’em if thou canst.
The deep of night is crept upon our talk,
And nature must obey necessity.
Boy! Lucius! Fast asleep? It is no matter,
Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber.Alliteration & Metaphor
Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies,
How many thousands of my poorest subjects
Are at this hour asleep! O sleep, O gentle sleep,
Nature’s soft nurseMetaphor,