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:	 
        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 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 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.