Death, be not proud, though some
have called thee
Mighty and
dreadful, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st,
thou dost overthrow,
Die not,
poor death, nor yet canst thou kill
me.
From rest and sleep, which
but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure,
then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do
go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's
delivery.
Thou art slave to fate,
chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war and sickness
dwell,
And poppy, or charms can make
us sleep as well,
And better than thy
stroke; why swellst thou then?
One
short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more;
death, thou shalt die.
John Donne, 1572 - 1631