To Death

By Countess of Winchilsea Anne Finch

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.