The poem
Alas, poor Death! Where is thy glory? Where is thy famous force, thy ancient sting?
Alas, poor mortal, void of story! Go spell and read how I have killed thy King.
Poor Death! And who was hurt thereby? Thy curse being laid on Him makes thee accurst.
Let losers talk, yet thou shalt die; These arms shall crush thee.
Spare not, do thy worst. I shall be one day better than before; Thou so much worse, that thou shalt be no more.