Death, Be Not Proud

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 pictures 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 art 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.

Deað, beaþ not proud, þāh sume hæfde cǣgðe þe
Mægen and egeslic, for þū eart nāt swā;
For ðā þe þū wēnað þæt þū dost ofermēdian
Dēaða nāt, earm Deað, nōr gehwā canst ðū me acwellan.
Of reste and slǣpe, ðe buton þīn ānweald synt,
Mōræne mycel; þonne fram þe micle māre mægan,
And hraðost ūre betst men mid þe feran,
Rest of heora bonan, and sāwle’s lēafing.
Þū eart weard to wyrd, cyme, cyningas, and forhtful men,
And dwelle mid wæpenum, wræce, and sīenesse,
And poppy oþþe searcniscan meaht us slǣpan swylc
And bettra ðan þīn stræca; hwȳ sweleþ þú þá?
An lytel slǣp forðan gewiten we æfre
And dēað ne bið nā more; Deað, þú scealt sweltan.