The Glories of Our Blood and State

Listen to:

The Glories of Our Blood and State (1:16)

by James Shirley

performed by Bob Gonzalez, rhapsode

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.

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:        

        Your heads must come

        To the cold tomb;

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.