"The glories of our blood and state,
Are shadows, not substantial things..."
by James Shirley

The glories of our blood and state,
Are shadows, not substantial things,
There is no armour against fate,
Death lays his icy hand on Kings,
Scepter and crown,
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be made equal made,
With the poor crooked sithe 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 Deaths purple Altar now,
See where the Victor-victim bleeds,
Your heads must come
To the cool Tomb,
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.