Equality
THE glories of our blood and stateAre shadows, not substantial things;There is no armour against fate;Death lays his icy hand on kings:Sceptre and CrownMust tumble down,And in the dust be equal madeWith 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 lateThey stoop to fate,And must give up their murmuring breathWhen they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow;Then boast no more your mighty deeds;Upon Death’s purple altar nowSee where the victor-victim bleeds:Your heads must comeTo the cold tomb;Only the actions of the justSmell sweet, and blossom in their dust.
ANONYMOUS Circa 1603