Death Be Not Proud by John Donne

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou **** me.
From rest and sleep, which yet 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 soul’s delivery.
Thou art ***** to fate, chance, kings and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war and sickness dwell;
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy ******; why swell’st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.