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