John Donne "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 pleasures, then from thee much more must flow;
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and souls’delivery!
Thou’rt 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!


Год назад помнил десятку его стихов наизусть, скажу честно: Донн давался нелегко, его нужно читать вслух что бы вникнутся в ритм и так же вслух запоминать.