by

John Donnes

John Donne (1572 – March 31, 1631) was a Jacobean poet and preacher, representative of the metaphysical poets of the period. His works, notable for their realistic and sensual style, include sonnets, love poetry, religious poems, Latin translations, epigrams, elegies, songs, satires and sermons. His poetry is noted for its vibrancy of language and immediacy of metaphor, compared with that of his contemporaries.

Towards the end of his life Donne wrote works that challenged death, and the fear that it inspired in many men, on the grounds of his belief that those who die are sent to Heaven to live eternally. One example of this challenge is his Holy Sonnet X, from which come the famous lines “Death, be not proud, though some have called thee mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so.” Summary from wikipedia

 Holy Sonnet I      Thou hast made me, and shall Thy work decay?     
Holy Sonnet II     As due by many titles I resign my self to Thee…     
Holy Sonnet III     O might those sighs and tears return again…     
Holy Sonnet IV     Oh my black soul! now art thou summoned…   
Holy Sonnet V     I am a little world made cunningly…     
Holy Sonnet VI     This is my play’s last scene…    
Holy Sonnet VII     At the round earth’s imagin’d corners…    
Holy Sonnet VIII     If faithful angels be alike glorified…     
Holy Sonnet IX     If poisonous minerals…    
Holy Sonnet X     Death, be not proud…     
Holy Sonnet XI     Spit in my face you Jews…     
Holy Sonnet XII     Why are we by all creatures waited on?     
Holy Sonnet XIII     What if this present were the world’s last night?    
Holy Sonnet XIV     Batter my heart, three-personed God…    
Holy Sonnet XV     Wilt thou love God, as he thee?    
Holy Sonnet XVI     Father, part of his double interest…     
Holy Sonnet XVII     Since she whom I loved hath paid her last debt…     
Holy Sonnet XVIII     Show me dear Christ, thy spouse so bright and clear…   
Holy Sonnet XIX     Oh, to vex me, contraries meet in one…    

 Read by David Barnes

Approx. Playing time: 23 minutes

DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.