Death be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and powerful, for thou art not so.

For those whom thou thinkest thou dost overthrow,

Die not poor death! nor ye can thou kill me !

From rest and sleep, which but thy picture be,

Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow;

And soonest with thee or best men do go-

Rest of their bones and souls deliivery!

Thou'rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poison, war and sickness dwell;

Thou'rt 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 swellest thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally,

And death shall be no more : Death thou shalt die.