The glories of our birth and state

Are shadows, not substantial things;

There is no armor against fate;

Death lays his icy hands on kings.

2 Princes and magistrates must fall,

And in the dust be equal made;

The high and mighty with the small,

Scepter and crown with scythe and spade.

3 The laurel withers on our brow;

Then boast no more your mighty deeds;

Upon death’s purple altar now

See where the victor victim bleeds!