Death Be Not Proud

By John Donne
Hear this poem read.

   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 wel
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. 

The play and movie Wit is a conceit on this sonnet.