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.

There is no armour against fate.

There is no armor against fate.

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

Death lays his icy hand on kings.

How little room Do we take up in death, that, living, know No bounds!

Death calls ye to the crowd of common men.