James Shirley Quotes
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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.
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Only the actions of the just, Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.
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The honor is overpaid, When he that did the act is commentator.
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Death calls ye to the crowd of common men.
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Devouring Famine, Plague, and War,Each able to undo mankind,Death's servile emissaries are;Nor to these alone confined,He hath at willMore quaint and subtle ways to kill;A smile or kiss, as he will use the art,Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart.
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There is no armor against fate.