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John Donne: Poem analysis » Death be not Proud » Structure and versification in Death be not Proud

Sonnet form

Death be not Proud is technically a Shakespearean, or Elizabethan, sonnet, consisting of three quatrains and a couplet. Typically, the couplet packs the punch, which it does here, though the preceding lines are not without their punches too.

However, the rhyme scheme (abba abba) is that of the Petrarchan sonnet which has the first eight lines as a group or octave. The Shakespearean sonnet typically rhymes abab cdcd. However, the couplet rhymes of ee is typical of the Shakespearean form.

Sonnets are typically in iambic pentameters.

Investigating Death be not Proud
  • Consider the rhyme scheme of Death be not Proud
    • Can you see any internal rhymes?
    • What other stylistic features have you noticed?
  • Trace the contrasts in rhythm that Donne introduces
  • If you were setting this to music
    • where would you emphasise the beat?
    • where might you employ some syncopation?
    • where might you vary the tempo?
  • What seem to you the most memorable features of the poem?

Resource: The sonnet has been set to music by Benjamin Britten: The Holy Sonnets of John Donne, Op.35.

A rhyming 2-line unit of verse.
The device, frequently used at the ends of lines in poetry, where words with the same sound are paired, sometimes for contrast ' for example, 'breath' and 'death'.
The 8-line stanza of a Petrarchan sonnet, always occupying the first eight lines. It sometimes has a division halfway, creating two quatrains. It poses a problem or describes some single object or incident.
A rhyming 2-line unit of verse.
A unit of metre, being a foot of two long, or stressed, syllables.
The musical effect of the repetition of stresses or beats, and the speed or tempo at which these may be read.

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so ;
For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy picture[s] be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou'rt slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,
And better than thy stroke ;  why swell'st thou then ?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And Death shall be no more ;  Death, thou shalt die.