Death, Be Not Proud

Death, be not proud, though some have
called thee
Mighty and dreadful, thou art not so,
For those, whom thou thinkest thou dost
overthrow,
Die not,poor death, nor yet canst thou kill
me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures
be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more
must flow,
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,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as
well
And better than thy stroke; why swellest thou
then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt
die.