To Death

 O King of Terrors, whose unbounded Sway 
All that have Life, must certainly Obey; 
The King, the Priest, the Prophet, all are Thine, 
Nor wou'd ev'n God (in Flesh) thy Stroke decline. 
My Name is on thy Roll, and sure I must 
Encrease thy gloomy Kingdom in the Dust. 
My soul at this no Apprehension feels, 
But trembles at thy Swords, thy Racks, thy Wheels; 
Thy scorching Fevers, which distract the Sense, 
And snatch us raving, unprepar'd from hence; 
At thy contagious Darts, that wound the Heads 
Of weeping Friends, who wait at dying Beds. 
Spare these, and let thy Time be when it will; 
My Bus'ness is to Dye, and Thine to Kill. 
Gently thy fatal Sceptre on me lay, 
And take to thy cold Arms, insensibly, thy Prey.

Form: Heroic Couplet

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