Three sleepless nights I passed in sounding on,

Through words and things, a dim and perilous way.

William Wordsworth (1770-1850): The Borderers. Act iv. Sc. 2.

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy,

The sleepless soul that perished in his pride;

Of him who walked in glory and in joy,

Following his plough, along the mountain-side.

By our own spirits we are deified;

We Poets in our youth begin in gladness,

But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.

William Wordsworth (1770-1850): Resolution and Independence. Stanza 7.

While pensive poets painful vigils keep,

Sleepless themselves to give their readers sleep.

Alexander Pope (1688-1744): The Dunciad. Book i. Line 93.