Only the actions of the just, Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.
The honour is overpaid,When he that did the act is commentator.
There is no armour against fate.
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.
Knaves will thrive when honest plainness knows not how to live.
Hark, how chimes the passing bell! There's no music to a knell; All the other sounds we hear, Flatter, and but cheat our ear. This doth put us still in mind That our flesh must be resigned, And, a general silence made, The world be muffled in a shade.
How little room Do we take up in death, that, living, know No bounds!
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.
Death calls ye to the crowd of common men.
There is no armor against fate.
Death lays his icy hand on kings.
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