James Shirley on Death

“He that on his pillow lies, Fear-embalmed before he dies Carries, like a sheep, his life, To meet the sacrificer's knife, And for eternity is prest, Sad bell-wether to the rest.”

“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 and crown Must tumble down, And, in the dust, be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade.”

“All buildings are but monuments of death, All clothes but winding-sheets for our last knell, All dainty fattings for the worms beneath, All curious music but our passing bell: Thus death is nobly waited on, for why? All that we have is but death's livery.”