tho some have called thee might and dreadful,

for thou art not so

for those whom thou thinkest thoust 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 sooner our best men does with thee go.

rest of their bones and souls delivery.

thou art slave to fate, kings, chance, and desperate men,

and dost with poison war and sickness dwell.

and poppies or charms can make us sleep as well

and better than thy stroke. why swellst thou then?

one short sleep past; we wake eternally.

and death shall be no more. death, thou shalt die.

--john donne