Death be not proud, though some have called thee <br />Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe, <br />For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow, <br />Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee. <br />From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee, <br />Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow, <br />And soonest our best men with thee doe goe, <br />Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie. <br />Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men, <br />And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell, <br />And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well, <br />And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then? <br />One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally, <br />And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.<br /><br />John Donne<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/death-be-not-proud/
