DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee | |
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so, | |
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow, | |
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me. | |
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee, | 5 |
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow, | |
And soonest our best men with thee doe 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, | 10 |
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well, | |
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then; | |
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally, | |
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
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| John Donne
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