John Donne

Busy old fool, unruly sun,

No man is an island,

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