Fame Is No Plant That Grows On

He 's Gone, And Who Knows How He May Report Thy Words By Adding Fuel To The Flame?

Those Whom Reason Hath Equalled, Force Hath Made Supreme

Good Luck Befriend Thee, Son; For At Thy Birth The Fairy Ladies Danced Upon The Hearth.

But Pain Is Perfect Misery, The Worst Of Evils, And Excessive, Overturns All Patience.

Or Bid The Soul Of Orpheus Sing Such Notes As, Warbled To The String, Drew Iron Tears Down Pluto's Cheek.