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 swell'st thou then?



One short sleep past, we wake eternally



And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.









