Death be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for, thou art not soe,

For, those, whom thou thinkest, thou dost overthrow,

Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.

From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures bee,

Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,

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 poppie or charms can make us sleep as well,

And better than thy stroke; why swell's thou then?

One short sleep passed, wee wake eternally,

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

© eatheswar