1Death, be not proud, though some have called thee 2Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; 3For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow 4Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. 5From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, 6Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow, 7And soonest our best men with thee do go, 8Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. 9Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, 10And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, 11And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well 12And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then