Holy Sonnet 10
By John Donne
Also on page 400 on your textbook
Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou thinksít thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor death, nor yet cansít 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 soulís delivery,
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate emen,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell.
And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swellíst thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.