Alchemia

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. From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures 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. 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 any stroke; why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die. Abscence hear thou my protestation Against thy strength Distance and length: Do what thou canst for alteration For hearts of truest meddle Abscance doth join and Time doth settle. I fix mine eye on thine, and there Pity my picture burning in thine eye; My picture drowned in a transparent tear, When I look lower I espy. Hadst thou the wiked skill By pictures made and mard, to kill, How many ways mightst thou perform thy will? But now I have drunk thy sweet salt tears, And though thou pour more I'll depart; My picture vanished, vanish fears That I can be endamaged by that art; Though thou retain of me One picture more, yet that will be, Being in thine own heart, from all malice free. She is all states, and all princes I; Nothing else is Princes do but play us; compared to this, All honour's mimic, all wealth alchemy.