The glories of our blood 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 *****.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they ****:
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 murmering 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 alter now
See where the victor-victim bleeds.
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb:
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.

-James Shirley