Quotes About Sleep

I think we should look forward to death more than we do. Of course everybody hates to go to bed or miss anything, but dying is really the only chance we'll get to rest.

For me, sleeping is a waste of time. I'm afraid to sleep. It's a form of death.

I look upon death to be as necessary to our constitution as sleep. We shall rise refreshed in the morning.

Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.

Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night, Brother to Death, in silent darkness born; Relive my languish, and restore the light.

There is nothing frightening about an eternal dreamless sleep. Surely it is better than eternal torment in Hell and eternal boredom in Heaven.

Hunger, revenge, to sleep are petty foes, But only death the jealous eyes can close.

My manuscripts sleep, while I cannot, for I am covered with poultices.

Sleep does make us all equal, it seems to me, like his big brother-Death.

Living is a sickness to which sleep provides relief every sixteen hours. It's a palliative. The remedy is death.

Sleep and death, two twins of winged race, Of matchless swiftness, but of silent pace.

How wonderful is death! Death and his brother sleep.

Death is an eternal sleep.

Sleep, the type of death, is also, like that which it typifies, restricted to the earth. It flies from hell and is excluded from heaven.

All that tread, The globe are but a handful to the tribes, That slumber in its bosom.

For next to Death is Sleepe to be compared; Therefore his house is unto his annext: Here Sleepe, ther Richesse, and hel-gate them both betwext.

Sleep is pain's easiest salve, and doth fulfil All offices of death, except to kill.

In the deepest slumber-no! In delirium-no! In a swoon-no! In death-no! even in the grave all is not lost.

Rest is for the dead.

Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes, brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose.

We term sleep a death by which we may be literally said to die daily; in fine, so like death, I dare not trust it without my prayers.

If the matter of death is reduced to sleep and rest, what can there be so bitter in it, that any one should pine in eternal grief for the decease of a friend?

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

When I can't sleep, I always wrap something around my neck and close my eyes and imagine myself being strangled to death. Then I can fall asleep--it feels like sinking deep underwater