Monday 19 September 2022

For God's sake let us sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the death of kings


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:

               Sceptre and Crown

               Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

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