Джон Донн. Священные сонеты

   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 well,