There is no armour against fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Sceptre and crown 5
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crookèd scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill: 10
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still: