Death the Leveller

Death the Leveller

The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows not substantial things
There is no armour against fate,
Death lays its icy hands on kings;
Scepter and crown,
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made,
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

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 late,
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow,
They boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon death's purple altar now,
See where the victor-victim bleeds,
Your heads must come,
To the cold tomb;
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

James Shirley: 1659

The Best Poems of the English Language/Harold Bloom/Wikipedia/Poem Hunter.