O Lord, Never Suffer Us To Think

Death Be Not Proud, Though Some Have Called Thee 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.

Lust-bred Diseases Rot Thee.

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?

I Wonder, By My Troth, What Thou And I Did, Till We Lov'd?

But I Do Nothing Upon Myself, And Yet I Am My Own Executioner.