Plunderverse

Death, Be Not Proud by John Donne

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
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.

Death, Be Proud Done

Death, be proud, though thee
Mighty for thou art so;
For those whom think'st thou dost overthrow
Die death yet canst thou kill me.
From rest which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; thee  more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee go,
Rest of their bones, and  delivery.
Thou art slave to, chance, , and  men,
dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
 why swell'st thou then?
One sleep past, we wake can make us sleep as well
death shall be more, death, thou die.