Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
James Shirley. 15961666288. Death the Leveller
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: | |
Sceptre and Crown | 5 |
Must tumble down, | |
And in the dust be equal made | |
With the poor crookèd scythe and spade. | |
Some men with swords may reap the field, | |
And plant fresh laurels where they kill: | 10 |
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 | 15 |
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. | 20 |
Your heads must come | |
To the cold tomb: | |
Only the actions of the just | |
Smell sweet and blossom in their dust. |