I try to wake but when I do, I long for sleep again. Riddled with lethargy and a troubled mind, shackled to the bed, I only find peace in slumber.
“Be not afeard: the isle is full of noises,
Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices,
That, if I then had wak’d after long sleep,
Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming,
The clouds methought would open and show riches
Ready to drop upon me; that, when I wak’d
I cried to dream again. ”
The Tempest (3.2.96-104)