Death, be not proud, though some have called thee <br />Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; <br />For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow, <br />Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. <br />From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, <br />Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow, <br />And soonest our best men with thee do go, <br />Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. <br />Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, <br />And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell; <br />And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well <br />And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then? <br />One short sleep past, we wake eternally, <br />And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.<br /><br />John Donne<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/holy-sonnet-x/
