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 scythe and spade.
The honor is overpaid, When he that did the act is commentator.
Only the actions of the just, Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.
There is no armor against fate.
Death calls ye to the crowd of common men.
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