Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Grim Reaper, thou shalt not swagger, although some do thee behold
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
How mighty, how dreadful, thou art reputed, yet thou art not so;
For, those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Thou presumest thou hast destroyed the multitude, yet,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
Poor Death, they are not dead; thou canst not slay me thus far;
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Repose and slumber, merely thine likenesses,
much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
Thou assuredly must be more comforting than these,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
And the sooner our finest join thee,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
The more swiftly their flesh may rest, and souls be set free,
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
Thou art but a servant to fortune, opportunity, sovereigns, and madmen,
