Song from 'Ajax and Ulysses.'
James Shirley
1596 to 1666
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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 crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
men with swords may reap the field,
And fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves last must yield;
They tame but one another still:
Early or late,
They stoop to fate,
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 Death's altar now,
See, where the victor-victim bleeds:
heads must come
To the cold tomb,
Only actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in dust.