Holy Sonnet X: 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 yet thy pictures be,

Much pleasure, then from thee much more, must low

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 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

I've always loved this one. While at work I have quotes running through my head and this one will often take precedence. I love the end quatrain and couplet. "Thou art slave to fate, ... desperate men ... poppy or charms can make us sleep as well and better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?"

p.s. Speaking of poetry, I have a friend who quotes Shakespeare without knowing it. Would that I could too.