John Donne 1573-1631 SONNET X.-ON DEATH (From Holy Sonnets, written before 1607) Death, be not proud, though some have called thee 5 Thou art slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, 10 And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou, then? One short sleep pass, we wake eternally, And Death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die. (From Poems, Lyrics and Pastorals, 1605 ?) Fair stood the wind for France, 5 But put unto the main, At Caux, the mouth of Seine, 'Poyters and Cressy tell, When most their pride did swell, 45 Than when our grandsire great, Lopp'd the French lilies.' The Duke of York so dread, 50 The eager vaward led; When down their bows they threw, And on the French they flew: 85 Arms from the shoulders sent, Scalps to the teeth were rent, Down the French peasants went, These were men hardy. When now that noble king, 90 His broad sword brandishing, Into the host did fling, As to o'erwhelm it; Who many a deep wound lent, His arms with blood besprent, 95 And many a cruel dent Bruised his helmet. 100 Gloster, that duke so good, 105 Warwick in blood did wade, Suffolk his axe did ply, On happy Crispin day Fought was this noble fray, 115 Which fame did not delay To England to carry; 120 O when shall Englishmen, |