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Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Might and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those whom thou think'st
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Might and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death, not yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but they pictures be, Much pleasure; then from thee much more must fl0w, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of thief bones, and soul's delivery. Thou art slave to fate, chance, kinds, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war and sickness dwell, And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well And better than they stroke; why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake externally And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die
Death, don't be arrogant, even though some people call you powerful and terrifying, you are not. For those you think you defeat do not die, poor Death, and you cannot kill me either. Rest and sleep are just images of you, and they bring much pleasure; so, you must bring even more. And the best among us go with you first, bringing rest to their bones and freeing their souls. You are a servant to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And you live with poison, war, and disease, And poppy or magic can make us sleep just as well, and even better than your touch; so why are you so proud? After a short sleep, we wake up forever, And death will be no more; Death, you will die.