James Shirley[1506-1666]The Glories of Our Blood and State
¶THE glories of our blood and stateAre shadows, not substantial things;There is no armour against fate;Death lays his icy hand on kings:Sceptre and CrownMust tumble down,And in the dust be equal madeWith the poor crooked scythe and spade.
James Shirley
¶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 lateThey stoop to fate,And must give up their murmuring breathWhen they, pale captives, creep to death.
¶The garlands wither on your brow;Then boast no more your mighty deeds;Upon Death's purple altar nowSee where the victor-victim bleeds:Your heads must comeTo the cold tomb;Only the actions of the justSmell sweet, and blossom in their dust.
The Last Conqueror
¶VICTORIOUS men of earth, no moreProclaim how wide your empires are;Though you bind-in every shoreAnd your triumphs reach as farAs night or day,Yet you, proud monarchs, must obeyAnd mingle with forgotten ashes, whenDeath calls ye to the crowd of common men.
¶Devouring Famine, Plague, and War ,Each able to undo mankind,Death's servile emissaries are;Nor to these alone confined.He hath at willMore quaint and subtle ways to kill;A smile or kiss, as he will use the art,Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart.