To Death

To Death

To Death
BY ANNE FINCH, COUNTESS OF WINCHILSEA

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.

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