Holy Sonnet: 10

By John Donne

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 souls’ delivery!
Thou’rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desp’rate 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 eternally,
And death shall be no more: Death, thou shalt die.

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