| DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee |
|
| Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so, |
|
| For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow, |
|
| Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me. |
|
| From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee, |
5 |
| Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow, |
|
| And soonest our best men with thee doe goe, |
|
| Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie. |
|
| Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men, |
|
| And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell, |
10 |
| And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well, |
|
| And better then thy stroake; why swell’st thou then; |
|
| One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally, |
|
| And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die. |
Fr. Dwight Longenecker
Ad-Free & Subscriber Log-In