—William Shakespeare (1564-1616), English poet and playwright. Sonnet 138 (1609) Jamie lay abed, enduring another wakeful night. He longed for the sweet spirit of sleep that sheltered a man like a cloak, but neither poppy nor mandragora, nor any other somniferous calmative would usher him into the twilight of drowsy sleep. For a few hours' slumber he would gladly entertain the supernatural soliciting of battalions of phantoms, or the terrors of nightmares galore. Yet the repose of the night would not come to him to set his soul at rest. It seemed eons ago that he had gone to Sophie's room to settle things between them, so they could move beyond suspicion and distrust. He began to doubt he would ever get enough of her if she slept in his bed and he took her each night for the rest of his life. He realized now that the first time he saw her something in him branded her as his. He did not realize it at the time, of course, and now that he had, things were much more complicated.
