Death, do not be proud, although some have called you
Mighty and terrible because you are not;
For those you think you’re about to overthrow
Don’t die, poor Death, nor can you kill me.
Of rest and sleep, which are only your pictures,
Have fun; then much more of you must flow,
And soon our best men go with you,
The rest of her bones and the delivery of the soul.
You are a slave to fate, to chance, to kings and to desperate men,
And dost dwell with poison, war, and sickness,
And poppy magic can also put us to sleep
And better than your punch; why are you swelling?
A short sleep over, we wake up forever,
And death will be no more; death, you shall die.
Crush my heart three person god for you
Just knock, breathe, shine and try to heal;
That I rise and stand, throw myself and bow
Your power to break, blow, burn and make me new.
I, like one usurped city to another,
trouble to let you in, but oh, without end;
Reason, your viceroy in me, shall defend me,
But is trapped and proves weak or untrue.
But I love you with all my heart and would like to be loved
But I’m betrothed to your enemy;
Divorce me, untie or break this knot again,
Bring me to you, lock me up, ’cause I
Unless you tie me up, you’ll never be free
Never been chaste unless you rape me.
— John Donne (1571-1631)