How little room Do we take up in death, that, living, know No bounds!
Death calls ye to the crowd of common men.
Death lays his icy hand on kings.
Only the actions of the just, Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.
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.
There is no armor against fate.