Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/270

 JOHN DONNE

211 Death

DEATH, be not proud, though some have called thcc 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 picture be, Much pleasure, then from thec much more must flow; And soonest our best men with thee do go Rest of their bones and souls' delivery ' Thou'rt 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'

RICHARD BARNEFIELD

212 Philomel

it fell upon a day

In the merry month of May,

Sitting in a pleasant shade

Which a grove of myrtles made,

Beasts did leap and birds did sing,

Trees did grow and plants did spring;

Everything did banish moan

Save the Nightingale alone:

She, poor bird, as all forlorn

Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn,

And there sung the dolefulPst ditty,

That to hear it was great pity.

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