Song from 'Ajax and Ulysses.'

James Shirley

James Shirley portrait

1596 to 1666

Poem Image
Track 1

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

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