Death not be proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadfu, for, thou art not so,

For, those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow

Die not, poor death, not 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 shall die.

John Donne