John Donne

1573-1631

SONNET X.-ON DEATH

(From Holy Sonnets, written before 1607)

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;

5

For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death; nor yet cans't thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy picture be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow:
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and souls' 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 pass, we wake eternally,

And Death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

10

(From Poems, Lyrics and Pastorals, 1605 ?)

Fair stood the wind for France,
When we our sails advance,
And now to prove our chance
Longer not tarry,

5 But put unto the main,

At Caux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his warlike train,
Landed King Harry.

'Poyters and Cressy tell,

When most their pride did swell,
Under our swords they fell,
No less our skill is

45 Than when our grandsire great,
Claiming the regal seat,
In many a warlike feat

Lopp'd the French lilies.'

The Duke of York so dread,
50 The eager vaward led;
With the main Henry sped,
Amongst his henchmen.

When down their bows they threw,
And forth their bilbows drew,

And on the French they flew:

No man was tardy;

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,
Next of the royal blood,
For famous England stood,

With his brave brother,
Clarence, in steel most bright,
That yet a maiden knight,
Yet in this furious fight
Scarce such another.

105 Warwick in blood did wade,
Oxford the foes invade,
And cruel slaughter made,
Still as they ran up;

Suffolk his axe did ply,
110 Beaumont and Willoughby
Bear them right doughtily,
Ferrers and Fanhope.

On happy Crispin day

Fought was this noble fray,
115 Which fame did not delay
To England to carry;
O when shall Englishmen,
With such acts fill a pen?
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry?

120