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

Scepter and crown
Must tumble down
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked sithe 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 the murmuring breath
When they pale captives creep to death

The Garlands wither on your brow
Then boast no more your mighty deeds
Upon deaths purple alter now
See where the victor-victim bleeds

Your heads must come
To the cold tomb
Onely the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust



Credits
Writer(s): James Shirley (1596-1666), Joris Holtackers
Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com

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