Poem by John Donne

Holy Sonnet 10. Death be not proud, though some have callèd thee

Death be not proud, though some have callèd thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse 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.

1. Holy Sonnet 8. If faithful souls be alike glorified
2. Holy Sonnet 12. Why are we by all creatures waited on?
3. Holy Sonnet 5. I am a little world made cunningly
4. Holy Sonnet 9. If poisonous minerals, and if that tree
5. Holy Sonnet 13. What if this present were the world's last night?

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