Death

　　DEATH be not proud though some have callèd 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!