Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/336

 JAMES SHIRLEY

Sing lo, lo' for his sake

That hath restored your drooping heads; With choice of sweetest flowers make

A garden where he treads,

Whilst we whole groves of laurel bring, A pretty triumph for his brow,

Who is the Master of our spiing And all the bloom we owe.

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��296 Death the Leveller

E 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.

Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another still Early or late They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow;

Then boast no more your mighty deeds' Upon Death's purple altar now

See where the victor-victim bleeds.

295 owe] own.

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