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.
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