Death
DEATH be not proud though some have calld thee
Mighty1 and dreadful for thou art not so:
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow2
Die not poor Death; nor yet canst thou kill me.
From Rest and Sleep which but thy picture be 5
Much pleasure then from thee much more must flow;
And soonest our best men with thee do go
Rest of their bones and souls' delivery!
Thou'rt slave to fate chance kings and desperate men
And dost with poison war and sickness dwell; 10
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke. Why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past we wake eternally
And Death shall be no more: Death thou shalt die!