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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. Scepter and crown must tumble down, And, in the dust, be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade."
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"I leaned against the desk, ran my hand over my father's paperwork, and picked up a pen. Turning around, I shoved it into my father's hand. 'What's this?' he asked, raising a brow. 'You'll need it to sign my death certificate, ' I said, pain vibrating my veins against my muscles and bones. 'Are we done now? (Eric)"
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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. Scepter and crown must tumble down, And, in the dust, be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade."
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