The sleep of a labouring man [is] sweet, whether he eat little or much: but the abundance of the rich will not suffer him to sleep.
Ver. 12. The sleep of a labouring man is sweet.] Sleep is the nurse of nature, the wages that she pays the poor man for his incessant pains. His fare is not so high, his care is not so great, but that without distemper or distraction he can hug his rest most sweetly, and feel no disturbance, until the due time of rising awakeneth him. a These labouring men are as sound as a rock, as hungry as hunters, as weary as ever was dog of day, as they say, and therefore no sooner laid in their beds but fast asleep, their hard labour causing easy digestion, and uninterrupted rest. Whereas the restless spirit of the rich wretch rides his body day and night; care of getting, fear of keeping, grief of losing, these three vultures feed upon him continually. He rolls a Sisyphus' stone; his abundance, like a lump of lead, lies heavy upon his heart, and breaks his sleep. Much like the disease called the nightmare, or ephialtes, in which men in their slumber think they feel a thing as large as a mountain lying upon their breasts, which they can no way remove. His evil conscience soon lasheth and lanceth him, as it did our Richard III, after the murder of his two innocent nephews, and Charles IX of France, after the bloody massacre. God also terrifies him with dreams, throws handfuls of hell fire in his face, interpellat cogitantem, excitat dormientem, as Ambrose hath it, interrupts him while he is thinking, awakeneth him while he is sleeping, rings that doleful peal in his ears, that makes him start and stare, "Thou fool, this night shall thy soul be taken from thee." Veni miser in iudicium, Come, thou wretch, receive thy judgment.
a Somni finis est salus animantis. - Magir.