DEATH, BE NOT PROUD

By John Donne

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and deadful, 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 paison, ware, and sickness dwel,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well,
And better than thy strok; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we make eternally,
And death shall be no more, death thou shalt die.