Holy Sonnet X
by John Donne

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those whom thou thinkst 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 poppies or charms can make us sleep as well And better than thy stroke. Why swellst thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die!

"...And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die!"