Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
John Donne. 15731631202. Death
DEATH, be not proud, though some have callèd 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 picture be, | 5 |
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 desperate men, | |
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell; | 10 |
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! |