I do not like the man who squanders life for fame; give me the man who living makes a name.
Fame is a bee It has a song - It has a sting - Ah, too, it has a wing.
Fame is a fickle food upon a shifting plate.
Fame is a fickle food Upon a shifting plate, Whose table once a Guest, but not The second time, is set. Whose crumbs the crows inspect, And with ironic caw Flap past it to the Farmer's corn; Men eat of it and die.
If fame belonged to me, I could not escape her; if she did not, the longest day would pass me on the chase, and the approbation of my dog would forsake me.
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