  The glories of our birth and state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armor against fate,— Death lays his icy hands on kings; Sceptre and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill; But their strong nerves at last must yield,— They tame but one another still; Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death. The garlands wither on your brow,— Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon death's purple altar, now, See where the victor victim bleeds! All heads must come To the cold tomb,— Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust. James Shirley. |
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