Death be not proud,
Though some have called you mighty and dreadful.
For, you are not so.
For, those, who you think you do overthrow,
die not, poor death, nor yet can you kill me.

From rest and sleep, which but your pictures be,
Much pleasure, then from you, much more must flow,
And soon our best men with you do go,
Rest of their bones, and souls deliverie.

You are slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And do with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,
And better than your stroke; why do you swell then;

One short sleep past,
we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more;
Death; YOU shalt die.

John Donne (1572-1631)