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Here is a modern translation of the poem "Death Be Not Proud" by John Donne:
Do not be proud Death, even though some have said that you are,
Powerful and frightening, because you are not,
For those, who think of you this way, you can deny it,
Do not die right now, poor death, because if you do you cannot kill me.
From rest and sleep, which you might see,
Lots of pleasure, then from you, more must move,
Soon the best men will go with you,
Their bones will rest, and souls be delivered.
You are a slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And where poison, war, and sickness live,
And poppies (a flower), or spells can bring us death as well,
And better than your hand; why are you so proud then;
One small sleep finished, then we will wake forever,
And death will no longer exist; death, you shall die.
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