1.
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.
James Shirley
2.
Only the actions of the just, Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.
James Shirley
3.
The honour is overpaid,When he that did the act is commentator.
James Shirley
4.
There is no armor against fate.
James Shirley
5.
Death lays his icy hand on kings.
James Shirley
6.
There is no armour against fate.
James Shirley
7.
When our souls shall leave this dwelling, the glory of one fair and virtuous action is above all the 'scutcheons on our tomb, or silken banners over us.
James Shirley
8.
Death calls ye to the crowd of common men.
James Shirley
9.
Knaves will thrive when honest plainness knows not how to live.
James Shirley
10.
Hark, how chimes the passing bell! There's no music to a knell; All the other sounds we hear, Flatter, and but cheat our ear. This doth put us still in mind That our flesh must be resigned, And, a general silence made, The world be muffled in a shade.
James Shirley
11.
How little room Do we take up in death, that, living, know No bounds!
James Shirley
