Tixall Poetry/A Moral Song

by unknown author

XI.

A Moral Song.

 

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 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.

 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.

 There garlands wither on there brow;
  Then boast no more of mighty deeds;
 For on deaths purple alter now,
  See, where the victor victime bleeds:
    All heads must come
    To the cold tombe,
Only the actions of the iust
Smell sweet, and blossome in the dust.

 

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