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 pictures 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 art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
If “rest and sleep” from the previous line are so pleasurable for us in life, then death must be even greater pleasure, because death is just an intensified form of sleep. The speaker is not afraid of dying; he even condescends to Death, personified as a kind of arrogant deity who believes that he is all-powerful and feared by all. 
 There is a pleasing and appropriate rhythmic quality to this line, with the repetition of ‘much’ and the three nicely balanced clauses.
Death be not proud Holy Sonnet X