“The glories of our birth and state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armor 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.”

↩

The lives of men are too short for them to measure the decay of things around them. ↩

It would be an unprofitable task to repeat in notes the names of these