The honour is overpaid,When he that did the act is commentator..

How little room Do we take up in death, that, living, know No bounds!.

Hark, how chimes the passing bell! There's no music to a knell; All the other sounds we hear, Flatter, and but cheat our ear. This doth put us still ….

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. Scepter a….

When our souls shall leave this dwelling, the glory of one fair and virtuous action is above all the 'scutcheons on our tomb, or silken banners over ….

Only the actions of the just, Smell sweet and blossom in their dust..

Knaves will thrive when honest plainness knows not how to live..

There is no armor against fate..

There is no armour against fate..

Death lays his icy hand on kings..

Death calls ye to the crowd of common men..