Death be not proud though some
Have called thee mighty and dreadful
For thou art not so ; for those
Whom thou think'st thou does over
Throw 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
Wish thee do go , rest of their bones
And soul's delivery . Thou art
Slave to fate , chance , Kings and
Desperate men and dist 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 shall die.

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