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 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. Sceptre and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade.  A Household Book of English Poetry: Selected and Arranged, with Notes - Էջ 55 Richard Chenevix Trench - 1870 - 438 էջ Ամբողջությամբ դիտվող -
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