Verse > Anthologies > Andrew Macphail, ed. > The Book of Sorrow
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Andrew Macphail, comp.  The Book of Sorrow.  1916.
 
IV. Inevitable
Warwick’s Death
By William Shakespeare (1564–1616)
 
From ‘The Third Part of Henry VI’, Act V. Scene 2

THESE eyes, that now are dimmed with death’s black veil,
Have been as piercing as the midday sun,
To search the secret treasons of the world:
The wrinkles in my brows, now fill’d with blood,
Were likened oft to kingly sepulchres;        5
For who liv’d king, but I could dig his grave?
And who durst smile when Warwick bent his brow?
Lo! now my glory smear’d in dust and blood;
My parks, my walks, my manors that I had,
Even now forsake me; and, of all my lands        10
Is nothing left me but my body’s length.
Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust?
And, live we how we can, yet die we must.
 
 
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