One to destroy, is murder by the law; and gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe; to murder thousands, takes a specious name, 'War's glorious art', and gives immortal fame.
Satire recoils whenever charged too high; round your own fame the fatal splinters fly.
Wouldst thou be famed? have those high acts in view, Brave men would act though scandal would ensue.
Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour? What tho' we wade in Wealth, or soar in Fame? Earth's highest station ends in 'Here he lies;' and 'Dust to dust' concludes the noblest songs.
Fame is the shade of immortality, And in itself a shadow. Soon as caught, Contemn'd; it shrinks to nothing in the grasp.
With fame, in just proportion, envy grows.
Men should press forward, in fame's glorious chase; Nobles look backward, and so lose the race.
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