Well, let's to our old Places again, and sleep out the little that's left of the Night. To Morrow is a new Day. Sleep,
Sancho, cry'd Don
Quixote, sleep, for thou were born to sleep; but I, who was design'd to be still waking, intend before
Aurora ushers in the Sun, to give a Loose to my Thoughts, and vent my Conceptions in a Madrigal, that I made last Night unknown to thee.