Death be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for, thou art not so, For, those, whom thou thinkst, thou dost overthrow, Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee, Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee doe goe, Rest of their bones, and souls deliverie. Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell, And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well, And better then thy stroake; why swellst thou then; One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally, And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die. [John Donne, 1610]
Posted on: Thu, 07 Nov 2013 17:10:06 +0000
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015