Death, be not proud,though some have called 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 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 swell st thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eterally

And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.