To Death. 
By Finch, Anne (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 e'en 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,
The 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 business is to die, and thine to kill.
Gently thy fatal sceptre on me lay,
And take to thy cold arms, insensibly, thy prey.