| Death, be not proud, though some have callèd 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 yet thy pictures be, | 5 |
| Much pleasure, then from thee much more, must low | |
| 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, | 10 |
| 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. | |