| 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 soul's delivery. |
| Thou art 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 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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