122
Tixall Poetry.
XI.
A Moral Song.
The glories of our birth and state,
Are shaddowes, not substantial! things,
There is noe armour gainst our fate,
Death laies his icie hand on kings:
Scepter and crowne,
Must tumble downe,
And in the dust be equall laid,
With the poore crooked sithe and spade.
Are shaddowes, not substantial! things,
There is noe armour gainst our fate,
Death laies his icie hand on kings:
Scepter and crowne,
Must tumble downe,
And in the dust be equall laid,
With the poore crooked sithe and spade.
Some men with swords doe reape the field,
And plant fresh lawrell where they kill;
Yet their strong nerves at last must yeild,
They tame but one another still:
Early or late,
They stoope to fate
And must give up there murmuring breath,
Whilst the pale captive creeps to death.
And plant fresh lawrell where they kill;
Yet their strong nerves at last must yeild,
They tame but one another still:
Early or late,
They stoope to fate
And must give up there murmuring breath,
Whilst the pale captive creeps to death.
