| Death, be not proud, though some have called thee |
1 |
| Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; |
2 |
| For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow, |
3 |
| Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. |
4 |
| From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, |
5 |
| Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow, |
6 |
| And soonest our best men with thee do go, |
7 |
| Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. |
8 |
| Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, |
9 |
| And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell; |
10 |
| And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well |
11 |
| And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then? |
12 |
| One short sleep past, we wake eternally, |
13 |
| And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die. |
14 |
