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 even God (in flesh) thy stroke decline. My name is on thy roll, and sure I must Encrease 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, unprepar'd 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 business is to die, and thine to kill. Gently thy fatal sceptre on me lay, And take to thy cold arms, insensibly, thy prey. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...GOOD NIGHT AND GOOD MORNING by RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES A DESCRIPTION OF A CITY SHOWER by JONATHAN SWIFT ODES: BOOK 2: ODE 10. TO THOMAS EDWARDS, ON ... POPE'S WORKS by MARK AKENSIDE AN ADDRESS TO THE DEITY by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD UNSOPHISTICATED WISHES, BY MISS JEMINA INGOLDSBY, AGED 15 by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 37 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING |