James Shirley

Only the actions of the just Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.

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,

The honour is overpaid, When he that did the act is commentator.

Death calls ye to the crowd of common men.

Devouring Famine, Plague, and War, Each able to undo mankind, Death's servile emissaries are; Nor to these alone confined, He hath at will More quaint and subtle ways to kill;