John Donne   HOLY SONNETS. X. 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 picture[s] 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'rt slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate 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. Listen to Richard Stevens' reading of this sonnet. Also, visit Ohio University's Wired for Books website for more poetry readings. Source: Donne, John. Poems of John Donne. vol I. E. K. Chambers, ed. London: Lawrence & Bullen, 1896. 162-163. to Works of John Donne Site copyright ©1996-2003 Anniina Jokinen.All Rights Reserved. Created by Anniina Jokinen on October 20, 1999. Last updated on September 8, 2003. Background by the kind permission of Stormi Wallpaper Boutique.