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 kill me. From rest and sleep, which but 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 slave to fate, chance, kings, and men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
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Death, don't be proud, even though people call you mighty and terrible — you aren't. The people you think you've killed don't die, and you can't kill me. Sleep is only your picture, and sleep gives pleasure, so you must give more. Our best people go with you soonest, to rest their bones and free their souls. You're a slave to fate, chance, kings and desperate men; you live with poison, war and sickness; poppy and charms can make us sleep as well or better. So why are you puffed up? After one short sleep we wake forever, and death will be no more. Death, you will die.