is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; 

if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe 

is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as 

well as any manner of thy friends or of thine 

own were; any man's death diminishes me, 

because I am involved in mankind. 

And therefore never send to know for whom 

the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

 ogni uomo è un pezzo del continente, una parte del tutto.

Se anche solo una zolla venisse lavata via dal mare,

l’Europa ne sarebbe diminuita,

come se le mancasse un promontorio,

come se venisse a mancare una dimora di amici tuoi,

o la tua stessa casa; la morte di qualsiasi uomo mi sminuisce,

 perché io sono parte dell’umanità.

E dunque non mandare mai a chiedere 

per chi suona la campana; essa suona per te.

 The first quatrain focuses on the subject and audience of this poem: death. By addressing Death, Donne makes it into a character through personification.
 The second quatrain turns the criticism of Death as less than fearful into praise for Death’s good qualities. From Death comes “Much pleasure”. Donne then returns to criticizing Death for thinking too highly of itself. So even there Death has no superiority. 
 The final couplet caps the argument against Death. Not only is Death the servant of other powers and essentially impotent to truly kill anyone, but also Death is itself destined to die when, as in the Christian tradition, the dead are resurrected to their eternal reward. Here Donne echoes the sentiment of the Apostle Paul in I Corinthians 15:26, where Paul writes that “the final enemy to be destroyed is death.” Donne taps into his Christian background to point out that Death has no power and one day will cease to exist. 

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, 

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.