DEATH - John Donne

Death, be not proud, though some have callèd 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 picture 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'rt 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, wee wake eternally,
And Death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die!