Unholy Sonnet 10
Rigor Sardonicous
Death, dear, be proud, and all have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, and thou art so
For those whom thou dost overthrow
Do die, great Death, and that may kill me
To rest and sleep, thy pictures shall be
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow
And soonest our best men with thee do go
Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery
We are slaves of fate, chance, kings, and desperation
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell
And poppy or charms may make us sleep as well
No better than thy stroke; and thou swell’st then!
One short sleep past, we sleep eternally
And Death shall be evermore, with Death, we shall die
