The Triumphs of Death.
The Glories of our Birth and State Are shadows, not substantial things
The Glories of our Birth and State Are shadows, not substantial things; There
is no Armor 'gainst our fate; Death layes his Icy-hand on Kings: Scepters and Crowns must
tumble down, And in the Dust be equall layd With the poor crooked Syth & Spade. Some men with
Swords may reap the Field, And plant fresh Lawrels where they kill'd; But their strong Nerves at last must
yield, They tame but one another still. Early or late they bend to fate, And must give up their murm'ring
breath While the pale Captive creeps to Death. The Garland withers on your brow, Then boast no more
your mighty deeds: Upon Death's purple Altar now, See where the Victor Victim bleeds. All heads must
come to the cold Tomb, Only the Actions of the Just Smell sweet, and Blossom in the Dust.
