lirik lagu james shirley: death the leveller - cecil trouncer
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 crookèd scythe and spade
some men with swords may reap the field
and plant fresh laurels where they k!ll:
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
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