Soldier, rest! thy warfare o’er,
  Dream of fighting fields no more;
  Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
  Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

* * * * *

Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;
Think not of the rising sun,
For, at dawning to assail ye,
Here no bugles sound reveille.
Lady of the Lake, Canto I.  SIR W. SCOTT.

                     Better be with the dead,
  Whom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace,
  Than on the torture of the mind to lie
  In restless ecstasy.  Duncan is in his grave;
  After life’s fitful fever, he sleeps well;
  Treason has done his worst:  nor steel, nor poison,
  Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing,
  Can touch him further!
Macbeth, Act iii.  Sc. 2.  SHAKESPEARE.

Here may the storme-bett vessell safely ryde;
This is the port of rest from troublous toyle,
The worlde’s sweet inn from paine and wearisome turmoyle.
Faerie Queene.  E. SPENSER.

  To die is landing on some silent shore,
  Where billows never break, nor tempests roar;
  Ere well we feel the friendly stroke, ’t is o’er.
The Dispensary, Canto III.  SIR S. GARTH.

  Here lurks no treason, here no envy swells,
  Here grow no damned grudges; here are no storms,
  No noise, but silence and eternal sleep.
Titus Andronicus, Act i.  Sc. 2.  SHAKESPEARE.

                         Let guilt, or fear,
  Disturb man’s rest, Cato knows neither of them;
  Indifferent in his choice, to sleep or die.
Cato.  J. ADDISON.

  Sleep is a death; O make me try
  By sleeping what it is to die,
  And as gently lay my head
  On my grave as now my bed.
Religio Medici, Pt.  II.  Sec. 12.  SIR T. BROWNE.

   Death in itself is nothing; but we fear
   To be we know not what, we know not where.
Aurengzebe, Act iv.  Sc. 1.  J. DRYDEN.

   Death, so called, is a thing that makes men weep,
   And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.
Don Juan, Canto XIV.  LORD BYRON.

   Let no man fear to die; we love to sleep all,
   And death is but the sounder sleep.
Humorous Lieutenant.  F. BEAUMONT.

  I hear a voice you cannot hear,
    Which says I must not stay,
  I see a hand you cannot see,
    Which beckons me away.
Colin and Lucy.  T. TICKELL.

DECEIT.

   An evil soul producing holy witness
   Is like a villain with a smiling cheek;
   A goodly apple rotten at the heart: 
   O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!
Merchant of Venice, Act i.  Sc. 3.  SHAKESPEARE.

   A man I knew who lived upon a smile,
   And well it fed him; he looked plump and fair. 
   While rankest venom foamed through every vein.
Night Thoughts, Night VIII.  DR. E. YOUNG.