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.