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