"THE DESPOT'S DESPOT' VITÆ SUMMA BREVIS SPEM NOS VETAT INCOHARE LONGAM THEY are not long, the weeping and the laughter, Love and desire and hate; I think they have no portion in us after We pass the gate. They are not long, the days of wine and roses: Our path emerges for a while, then closes Within a dream. Ernest Dowson [1867-1900] DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST From "The Contention of Ajax and Ulysses THE glories of our blood and state 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, They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath Man's Mortality The garlands wither on your brow; Then boast no more your mighty deeds; 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. 3193 James Shirley [1596-1666] DEATH'S SUBTLE WAYS From "Cupid and Death” VICTORIOUS Men of earth, no more Though you bind in every shore, And your triumphs reach as far As night or day, Yet you, proud monarchs, must obey, And mingle with forgotten ashes when Death calls ye to the crowd of common men. Devouring famine, plague, and war, Each able to undo mankind, Death's servile emissaries are; Nor to these alone confined, He hath at will More 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. James Shirley [1596–1666] MAN'S MORTALITY From "Microbiblion" LIKE as the damask rose you see, Or like the sun, or like the shade, The gourd consumes, and man--he dies! Like to the grass that's newly sprung, Like to a bubble in the brook, Or in a glass much like a look, Or like a shuttle in a weaver's hand, Or like the writing on the sand, Like to a blaze of fond delight, Or like the pride of Babel's tower, To Death Even such is man, whose glory lends Like to an arrow from the bow, The arrow's shot, the flood soon spent, Like to the lightning from the sky, The pear doth rot, the plum doth fall, The snow dissolves, and so must all! 3195 Simon Wastell [ ? -1632] TO DEATH O KING of Terrors! whose unbounded sway The king, the priest, the prophet, all are thine, Nor would even God (in flesh) thy stroke decline. My name is on thy roll, and sure I must But trembles at thy swords, thy racks, thy wheels, THE GENIUS OF DEATH WHAT is death? 'Tis to be free, To join the great equality; All, all alike are humbled there. Wraps lord and slave; Nor pride nor poverty dares come Spirit with the drooping wing And the ever-weeping eye, Their multitude Sink like waves upon the shore; Storms shall never raise them more. What's the grandeur of the earth To the grandeur round thy throne? Riches, glory, beauty, birth, To thy kingdom all have gone. Before thee stand The wondrous band, |