I need a full translation (into Modern English) of John Donne's famous poem "Death be not Proud."
Interesting task to try and achieve. Here goes my effort:
Don't be conceited Death, even though many think you are
Mighty and dreadful, for actually you are not,
For those that you think you triumph over
Don't actually die, poor little Death, just as you can't kill me.
Death actually only gives rest and sleep,
Which is very pleasurable, because death is only a temporary state that will end,
And as soon as great people die and go to you,
You only give the body rest and deliver the soul from the bondage of the body.
You are a slave to fate, luck, kings and desperate men,
And you live with poison, war and sickness,
And after all, drugs and magic can make us sleep too,
And better than you can, so what makes you think you are so great?
After we have a short nap, we will awake to eternity
And in this place death will not exist; Death, you are going to die.