Death be not proud, though some have called thee,
Mighty and dreadful, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think’st1 thou dost2 overthrow,
Die not, poor death, nor yet canst3 thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy4 pictures be,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest5 our best men with thee6 do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.
Thou art7 slave to fate, chance , kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy8, or charms9 can make us sleep as well,
And better than thy stroke; why swell’st10 thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
Narrated by Matthew MacDonald
Website Designed and Maintained By Matthew John MacDonald April 2005