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