YOU virgins that did late despair
To keep your wealth from cruel men,
Tie up in silk your careless
Soft peace is come again.
Now lovers eyes may gently shoot
A flame that will not kill;
The drum was angry, but the lute
whisper what you will.
Sing Io, Io! for his sake
That hath restored your drooping heads;
With choice of sweetest
A garden where he treads;
Whilst we whole groves of laurel bring,
A pretty triumph for his brow,
Who is the Master of our
And all the bloom we owe.1
THE glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour
Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Sceptre and Crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be
With the poor crookàd scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill:
strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:
Early or late
They stoop to fate,
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!
purple altar now
See where the victor-victim bleeds.
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb:
actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.
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