Fame Is The Spur That The Clear

A Death-like Sleep, A Gentle Wafting To Immortal Life.

A Man May Be Ungrateful, But The Human Race Is Not So.

And The More I See Pleasures About Me, So Much More I Feel Torment Within Me.

By Labor And Intent Study (which I Take To Be My Portion In This Life), Joined With The Strong Propensity Of Nature, I Might Perhaps Leave Something So Written To After-times, As They Should Not Willingly Let It Die.

The Oracles Are Dumb, No Voice Or Hideous Hum Runs Through The Arched Roof In Words Deceiving. Apollo From His Shrine Can No More Divine, With Hollow Shriek The Steep Of Delphos Leaving. No Nightly Trance Or Breathed Spell Inspires The Pale-eyed Priest From The Prophetic Cell.