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 would ev’n God (in flesh) thy stroke decline. My name is on thy roll, and sure I must Increase 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, unprepared, 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 die, and thine to kill. Gently thy fatal scepter on me lay, And take to thy cold arms, insensibly, thy prey.