Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for, thou art not soe.
For, those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill mee
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee.
Much pleasure, then from thee, much mores must flow
And soonest our best men with thee doo goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre and sickness dwell.
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more;
Death thou shalt die.

John Donne