O King of Terrors, whose unbounded Sway <br />All that have Life, must certainly Obey; <br />The King, the Priest, the Prophet, all are Thine, <br />Nor wou'd ev'n God (in Flesh) thy Stroke decline. <br />My Name is on thy Roll, and sure I must <br />Encrease thy gloomy Kingdom in the Dust. <br />My soul at this no Apprehension feels, <br />But trembles at thy Swords, thy Racks, thy Wheels; <br />Thy scorching Fevers, which distract the Sense, <br />And snatch us raving, unprepar'd from hence; <br />At thy contagious Darts, that wound the Heads <br />Of weeping Friends, who wait at dying Beds. <br />Spare these, and let thy Time be when it will; <br />My Bus'ness is to Dye, and Thine to Kill. <br />Gently thy fatal Sceptre on me lay, <br />And take to thy cold Arms, insensibly, thy Prey.<br /><br />Anne Kingsmill Finch<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-death-3/
