John Donne

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by 1879HTrussell
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John Donne

Death, be not proud, though some have called theeMighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrowDie 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 wellAnd better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?One short sleep past, we wake eternallyAnd death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

John Donne was raised in the Catholic faith, a quality that greatly affected his writing. Donne’s brother was arrested and convicted for Catholic sympathies and later died in jail.

Thou Hast Made Me

Thou hast made me, and shall thy work decay?Repair me now, for now mine end doth haste,I run to death, and death meets me as fast,And all my pleasures are like yesterday;I dare not move my dim eyes any way,Despair behind, and death before doth castSuch terror, and my feebled flesh doth wasteBy sin in it, which it towards hell doth weigh.Only thou art above, and when towards theeBy thy leave I can look, I rise again;But our old subtle foe so tempteth me,That not one hour I can myself sustain;Thy grace may wing me to prevent his art,And thou like adamant draw mine iron heart.

Death Be Not Proud

John Donne(c.1572-1632)


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