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The Glories of our Blood and State / 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

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,

Then 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.

The Last Conquerer

Victorious men of earth, no more

Proclaim how wide your empires are;

Though you bind-in every shore

And your triumphs reach as far

As night and day,

Yet you, proud monarchs, must obey

And mingle with forgotten ashes, when

Death calls ye to the crowd of common men.

Devouring Famine, Plague, and War,

Each able to undo mankind,

Death's servile emissaries are;

Nor to these alone confined,

He hath at will

More quaint and subtle ways to kill;

A smile or kiss, as he will use the art,

Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart.