The Glories of our Birth and State,

Are Shadows, not substantial Things:

There is no Armor 'gainst our Fate,

Death lays his Icy-Hands on Kings:

            Scepter and Crown

            Must tumble down,

And in the Dust be equal laid

With the poor crooked Sythe and 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.