“At sixteen, you still think you can escape from your father.
You aren’t listening to his voice speaking through your mouth,
you don’t see how your gestures already mirror his;
you don’t see him in the way you hold your body,
in the way you sign your name.
You don’t hear his whisper in your blood.”
Simply put, our time together is running out.
Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee;
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie
Thou art slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And doth with poyson, warre, and sickness dwell.
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell’st thou then?
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more, death thou shalt die.