Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor death, nor 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 shalt die