---

Death, dear, be proud, and all have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, and thou art so

For those whom thou dost overthrow

Do die, great Death, and that may kill me

To rest and sleep, thy pictures shall 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

We are slaves of fate, chance, kings, and desperation

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell

And poppy or charms may make us sleep as well

No better than thy stroke; and thou swell’st then!

One short sleep past, we sleep eternally

And Death shall be evermore, with Death, we shall die