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