Death

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O King of Terrors, whose unbounded sway
All that have Life, must certainly Obey;
The King, the Priest, the Prophet, all are Yours,
No one in flesh your stroke decline.
My name is on the roll, and sure I must 
Increase your gloomy kingdom in the dust.
My soul at this no apprehension feels,
But trembles at your swords, your racks, your wheels;
Your scorching fevers, which distract the sense,
And snatch us raving, unprepared from this;
At your contagious darts, that wound the heads
Of weeping friends, who wait at dying beds.
Spare these, and let your time be when it will;
My business is to die, and Yours to kill.
Gently your fatal scepter on me lay,
And take to your cold arms, insensibly, your prey

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