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. The casquet of literature, a selection in poetry and prose, ed. with notes ... - Página 49 de Casket - 1873 Visualização completa -
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