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 they pictures be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow;
And soonest our best men with thee do ,
Rest of their bones, and souls` 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 well,
And better than they stroke; why swell`st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more, Death thou shalt die.