John Donne

Death be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe

For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow

Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.

From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,

Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee do goe,

Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.

Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,

And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,

And better than thy stroake; why swell’st thou then?

One short sleepe past, we wake eternally,

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