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Normale Version: DEATH, be not proud, though some have called thee
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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 do with thee go
Rest of their bones, and souls' delivery.
Thou 'rt 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 swelPst thou then ?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more : Death, thou shalt die.