“Death, be not proud, though some have called you

Mighty & dreadful, but you are not so;

For those who you think you overthrow

Die not, poor Death, nor can you kill me

From rest & sleep, which but your pictures be

Much pleasure; then from you much more must flow

And soon our best with you do go

Rest of their bones & soul’s delivery

You are slave to fate, chance, kings & desperate men

And do with poison, war & sickness dwell

And poppies or charms can make us sleep so well

And better than your stroke; why swell you then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally

And death shall be no more; Death, you will die.”

by John Donne