Original

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so;
For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou **** 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.

Translation by Liza Ann Marie**

Death, do not be proud. Though some may call you
Mighty and dreadful, you are not that way.
For, those you think you overthrow,
Do not die; Poor Death, you cannot even **** me.
You are like rest and sleep and bring
Much pleasure; and then to you many more flow.
And soon our best men will go with you,
Rest of their bones and soul’s delivery.
You are a slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men;
In poison, war, and sickness you dwell.
Poppies or charms could make us sleep just as well,
And even better than you could; why pride yourself then?
After one short sleep, we awake again eternally
And you will be no more. Death, you will die.