Death Be Not Proud presents an argument against the power of death.

Addressing Death as a person, the speaker warns Death against pride in his
power. Such power is merely an illusion, and the end Death thinks it brings to
men and women is in fact a rest from world-weariness for its alleged victims.
The poet criticizes Death as a slave to other forces: fate, chance, kings, and
desperate men. Death is not in control, for a variety of other powers exercise
their volition in taking lives. Even in the rest it brings, Death is inferior to drugs.
Finally, the speaker predicts the end of Death itself, stating Death, thou shalt
die.

Analysis
Donnes Holy Sonnet 10 follows the Elizabethan/Shakespearean sonnet form in
that it is made up of three quatrains and a concluding couplet. However, Donne
has chosen the Italian/Petrarchan sonnet rhyme scheme of abba for the first two
quatrains, grouping them into an octet typical of the Petrarchan form. He
switches rhyme scheme in the third quatrain to cddc, and then the couplet
rhymes ee as usual.
The first quatrain focuses on the subject and audience of this poem: death. By
addressing Death, Donne makes it/him into a character through personification.
The poet warns death to avoid pride (line 1) and reconsider its/his position as a
Mighty and dreadful force (line 2). He concludes the introductory argument of
the first quatrain by declaring to death that those it claims to kill Die not (line
4), and neither can the poet himself be stricken in this way.
The second quatrain, which is closely linked to the first through the abba rhyme
scheme, turns the criticism of Death as less than fearful into praise for Deaths
good qualities. From Death comes Much pleasure (line 5) since those good
souls whom Death releases from earthly suffering experience Rest of their
bones (line 6). Donne then returns to criticizing Death for thinking too highly of
itself: Death is no sovereign, but a slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate
men (line 9); this last demonstrates that there is no hierarchy in which Death is
near the top. Although a desperate man can choose Death as an escape from
earthly suffering, even the rest which Death offers can be achieved better by
poppy, or charms (line 11), so even there Death has no superiority.
The final couplet caps the argument against Death. Not only is Death the servant
of other powers and essentially impotent to truly kill anyone, but also Death is
itself destined to die when, as in the Christian tradition, the dead are resurrected
to their eternal reward. Here Donne echoes the sentiment of the Apostle Paul in I
Corinthians 15:26, where Paul writes that the final enemy to be destroyed is
death. Donne taps into his Christian background to point out that Death has no
power and one day will cease to exist.

Death Be Not Proud

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou thinkst 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 souls 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 thy stroke; why swellst thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more, death, thou shalt die.
John Donne (1572-1631)
John Donne shifted dramatically in his life: The early Donne was the passionate
lover and rebel of sense; the later Donne, a man consumed with his own spiritual
journey and search for truth.
Donne is known as the first and greatest of metaphysical poetsthose of a genre
in which the most heterogeneous ideas are yoked by violence together; nature
and art are ransacked for illustrations, comparisons, and allusions, as essayist
and critic Samuel Johnson put it.Here, Donne has taken a Romantic form and
transformed a transcendental struggle of life and death into a quiet ending, one
in which death shall be no more.
Where Johnson spied cumbersome force, Donnes style dazzles with soft and
calm brilliance, even in the cascade of calumnies against the great equalizer
Death. Fate, chance, kings and desperate men are yoked together, not in
bondage but in freedom, in their power to inflict and manipulate death at will.
The panorama of life and legacy has overcome death time and again, yet Donne
expounds the expansive exploitation of death in one verse.

It is the will of man that triumphs over the cessation of life, the will to believe in
what cannot be seen, to dismiss poor death as mere pictures compared to
the substance of life infused with the Spirit.
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
No bragging rights for Death, according to the poet, who in the first two lines of
his sonnet denounces in apostrophe the end of life, not proud, not so.
Mighty and dreadful, two weighty terms, do not belong nor confer any majesty
on death. Thou are not so. A simple statement, a certain indictment, and the
poet has dispensed with Death, who is ponderous, no preposterous for the
previous fears His presence has impressed on mankind.
For those whom thou thinkst thou dost overthrow?
Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
In this neat conceit, Death himself is fooled, limited by the surface. Thou
thinkst thou dost overthrow, the monarch of destruction is an impoverished
exile, removed forever more from the room of imperious prominence. Poor
death is now the object of pity, the last enemy that will be thrown into the lake
of fire.
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 souls delivery.
The poet compares death not to a savage desecration, nor a fatal, final battle,
but instead an extension of any easy rest, one from which a man receives much
pleasure. Rest and sleep as pictures, the poet condescendingly remarks,
bring death into the secondary status of demeaning dimension. Mens bones
receive a welcome respite, and their soul the final delivery from this earth. Death
has nothing to brag about, for death is put in comparison with rest, with sleep,
with regenerative silence. Death does not catch the prey of frail men, but instead
sets men free, and without fail.
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 thy stroke; why swellst thou then?
Here, death as deemed a slave, a unique trope, one, which the poet fashions
with wit and wisdom. Fate is far greater the force than the end of life which

menaces many men. Chance is a game, a mere trifle, a toy which men gamble
with, whether ending their fortunes or their lives. Kings put evil rebels,
madmen, and threats to the state, to death. No one escapes the justice, the rule,
the righteousness of the king, who even in passing, his dynasty passes on: The
King is dead. Long live the King! is proclaimed from death to life, where the
children of yesteryear become the rulers of today and the progenitors of the
future. Death, mere bystander, ushers in the transitions of power.
As for the company of death, the poet outlines simply poison, natural or
otherwise, which can slay a man in minutes or in hours. Poisons which have
ended kings and queens, eradicated vermin and other pestilences, even drugs
which prosper and prolong life began as poisons which in improper doses kill,
and quickly.
Whether the vain ragings of craven men or glory on the battlefields, war
covers a range of reigns and rights, ponderings and possibilities. Death is not
even a scavenger, but a frustrated element pushed to the limit, expected to do
the bidding of the common folk and the ruling elite, the final weapon which man
overcomes even in being overcome. In war, where men die for country, they live
forever in the memory of their countrymen, mocking Death who has aided their
eternity.
Sickness is the necessary pause for men who cannot contain their passions, for
the growing race of human beings who run the race with no thought to running
out. Sickness is the crucial agent that brings a long and much-needed arrest to
those who inflict harm on their bodies, who resist the bounds of natural appetite.
Sickness also is the final sign, the moments when a man who departs knows well
that his time is short, and so the stultifying stops of pains and coughs at least
buy him time to say good-bye.
Poppy or charms can make us sleep as well. As well communicates in
comparison and in addition, gaily sporting with the super-abounding grace of
natures wonders, which man has contrived to ease his pain and quicken his rest.
Poppy is a joyful word, a colorful, childlike flower winding away with careless
wonder in the wind. Charms, whether magical or romantic, are bewitching and
bewailing, at least for the one who has fallen beneath their spell. Sometimes, the
simple charm of a smiling face suffices more, traced with the soft face of a poppy
gladly handed to a loved one. And so, Death is outdone once again!
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more, death, thou shalt die.
Sleep appears again, but not in conjunction with rest; instead, rest leads to life
eternal, where man will no longer need to rest, fashioned as he will be in a body
that does not age, that will never flag or fail, Donne decrees. Death is further
impoverished, ruined, left desolate. Man in eternal life witnesses death
succumbing to himself. Death shall be no more, the poet proudly yet dulcetly
declares, not even bothering to speak to death. So certain, so final, so enriched

with vigor, the poet then whispers, yet loudly of the import of the paradox:
Death, thou shalt die.
Death dies, or is Death dying? What a wicked end, the poet has mocked, derided,
denounced, and diminished death into a cruel joke, a maxim which maximizes
the power of the man reborn, trusting in a higher power to infuse him with
eternal life, forever inoculating him from the subtleties of war, poison, and
sickness all. Fate is fated to disappear, chance has become certainty, kings of
limited renown are dethroned, and desperate men now hope. Death, thou shalt
die. Death is now bereft of pride, like a witless cowboy who has shot himself in
the foot, powerless and wounded, and by his own stroke.
Donne indeed has done and dispensed with Death, and mortal man evermore
may rejoice!