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Oh! colder than the wind that freezes
Founts that but now in sunshine play'd,
Is that congealing pang which seizes
The trusting bosom when betray'd.

Then fare thee well-I'd rather make
My bower upon some icy lake,
When thawing suns begin to shine,
Than trust to love so false as thine.

FAME.

Mrs. Osgood

Then straight thro' all the world 'gan fame to fly,
A monster swifter none is under sun;
Increasing as in waters we descry

The circles small, of nothing that begun;
Moore. Which at the length, unto such breadth do come,
That of a drop which from the skies do fall,
The circles spread and hide the waters all:
So fame in flight increaseth more and more:
For at the first, she is not scarcely known,
But by and by she fleets from shore to shore,
To clouds from the earth her stature straight is

Moore.

Out on our beings' falsehood! studied, cold—
Are we not like that actor of old time,
Who wore his mask so long his features took
Its likeness?

I live among the cold, the false,
And I must seem like them;
And such I am, for I am false
As those I most condemn.

grown:

There whatsoever by her trump is blown,
The sound that both by sea and land outflies,

Miss Landon. Rebounds again and verberates the skies.

Miss Landon.

The sting of falsehood loses half its pain
If our own soul bear witness-we are true.

Mrs. Hale.

O Agony! keen agony,

For trusting heart to find

That vows believed, were vows conceived

As light as summer wind.

I scorn this hated scene

Of masking and disguise,

Where men on men still gleam,

With falseness in their eyes;

Where all is counterfeit,

And truth hath never say;

Where hearts themselves do cheat,
Concealing hope's decay.

Mirror for Magistrates.

The voice of fame should be as loud as thunder;
Her house is all of echo made,

Where never dies the sound;

And, as her brows the clouds invade,

Her feet do strike the ground.

Sing then good fame, that's out of virtue born;
For who doth fame neglect, doth virtue scorn.
Jonson's Masque of Queens.

The life of fame is action understood;

That action must be virtuous, great, and good.
Virtue itself by fame is oft protected,

Motherwell. And dies despised, where the fame's neglected.

Motherwell.

We hear, indeed, but shudder while we hear,
The insidious falsehood, and the heartless jeer:
For each dark libel that thou lik'st to shape,
Thou mayst from law, but not from scorn escape;
The pointed finger, cold averted eye,
Incalted virtue's hiss-thou canst not fly.

Charles Sprague.

Jonson's Clorinda.

Talk not to me of fond renown, the rude,
Inconstant blast of the base multitude:
Their breaths, nor souls can satisfaction make,
For half the joys I part with for their sake.

Crown

Death makes no conquest of this conqueror;
For now he lives in fame though not in life.
Shaks. Richard III.

The evil that men do, lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones.

Shaks. Julius Cæsar.
Men's evil manners live in brass: their virtues
We write in water.
Shaks. Henry VIII.

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Adieu, and take thy praise with thee to heav'n!
Thy ignominy sleep with thee in the grave,
But not remember'd in thy epitaph.

Knows he, that mankind praise against their will,
And mix as much detraction as they can?
Knows he, that faithless fame her whisper has,

Shaks. Henry IV. Part I. As well as trumpet? That his vanity

Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives,
Live register'd upon our brazen tombs,
And then grace us in the disgrace of death.
Shaks. Love's Labour.
After my death I wish no other herald,
No other speaker of my living actions,
To keep mine honour from corruption,
But such an honest chronicler as Griffith.
Shaks. Henry VIII.
O, your desert speaks loud; and I should wrong it,
To lock it in the wards of covert bosom,
When it deserves with characters of brass
A forted residence, 'gainst the tooth of time
And razure of oblivion.

Shaks. Mea. for Mea.

The fame that a man wins himself is best;
That he may call his own: honours put on him
Make him no more a man than his clothes do,
Which are as soon ta'en off; for in the warmth
The heat comes from the body not the weeds;
So man's true fame must strike from his own deeds.
Middleton.

Vain empty words

Of honour, glory, and immortal fame,
Can these recall the spirit from its place,
Or re-inspire the breathless clay with life?
What tho' your fame with all its thousand trumpets,
Sound o'er the sepulchres, will that awake
The sleeping dead.

Is so much tickled from not hearing all?

Young's Night Thoughts.
With fame, in just proportion, envy grows;
The man that makes a character, makes foes.
Young's Epistle to Pope

Fame is a public mistress, none enjoys,
But, more or less, his rival's peace destroys.
Young's Epistle to Pope.

Of boasting more than of a bomb afraid,
A soldier should be modest as a maid:
Fame is a bubble the reserv'd enjoy;
Who strive to grasp it, as they touch destroy:
"T is the world's debt to deeds of high degree;
But if you pay yourself, the world is free.
Young's Love of Fame

What so foolish as the chase of fame ?
How vain the prize! how impotent our aim!
For what are men who grasp at praise sublime,
But bubbles on the rapid stream of time,
That rise and fall, that swell, and are no more,
Born and forgot, ten thousand in an hour.
Young's Love of Fame

A prattling gossip, on whose tongue
Proof of perpetual motion hung,
Whose lungs in strength all lungs surpass,
Like her own trumpet made of brass;
Who with a hundred pair of eyes,
The vain attacks of sleep defies;
Who with a hundred pair of wings

Sewell's Sir Walter Raleigh. News from the farthest quarters brings;
Sees, hears, and tells, untold before,
All that she knows, and ten times more.

I courted fame but as a spur to brave
And honest deeds; and who despises fame
Will soon renounce the virtues that deserve it.
Mallet's Mustapha.
Some when they die, die all; their mould'ring clay
Is but an emblem of their memories;
The space quite closes up thro' which they pass'd:
That I have liv'd, I leave a mark behind,
Shall pluck the shining age from vulgar time,
And give it whole to late posterity.

Young's Busiris.
In stress of weather, most; some sink outright;
O'er them, and o'er their names, the billows close;
To-morrow knows not they were ever born.
Others a short memorial leave behind,
Like a flag floating, when the bark's ingulph'd;
It floats a moment and is seen no more:
One Cæsar lives; a thousand are forgot.

Young's Night Thoughts.

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Churchill.

Absurd! to think to overreach the grave,
And from the wreck of names to rescue ours:

The best concerted schemes men lay for fame
The far-fam'd sculptor, and the laurel'd bard,
Die fast away only themselves die faster.

Those bold insurers of eternal fame,
Supply their little feeble aids in vain.

Blair's Grave

Sepulchral columns wrestle, but in vain,
With all-subduing time; her cankering hand
With calm deliberate malice wasteth them:
Worn on the edge of days, the brass consumes,
The busto moulders, and the deep-cut marbie,
Uns 'eady to the steel, gives up its charge.
Ambrion, half-convicted of her folly,
Hangs down the head and reddens at the tale.
Blair's Grave

For fame the wretch beneath the gallows lies,
Disowning every crime for which he dies,
Of life profuse, tenacious of a name,
Fearless of death, and yet afraid of shame.
Nature has wove into the human mind
This anxious care of names we leave behind,
T" extend our narrow views beyond the tomb,
And give an earnest of a life to come;
For if, when dead, we are but dust or clay,
Why think of what posterity will say?
Her praise or censure cannot us concern,
Nor ever penetrate the silent urn.

Soame Jennyns.
What's fame? a fancied life in others' breath,
A thing beyond us, ev'n before our death.
Just what you hear, you have; and what's
unknown,

The same, my lord, if Tully's, or your own.
All that we feel of it begins and ends
In the small circle of our foes or friends;
To all beside as much an empty shade,
As Eugene living, as a Cæsar dead.

Pope's Essay on Man.

He left the name, at which the world grew pale, To point a moral, or adorn a tale.

Dr. Johnson's Vanity of Human Wishes. Men's actions to futurity appear, But as th' events to which they are conjoin'd To give them consequence. A fallen state, In age and weakness fall'n, no hero hath; For none remains behind unto whose pride The cherish'd mem'ry of his acts pertains.

Joanna Baillie's Constantine Paleologus Who, that surveys this span of earth we press, This speck of life in time's great wilderness, This narrow isthmus 'twixt two boundless seas, The past, the future, two eternities! Would sully the bright spot or leave it bare, When he might build him a proud temple there, A name, that long shall hallow all its space, And be each purer soul's high resting-place! Moore's Lalla Rookh. Fame is the thirst of youth, but I am not So young as to regard men's frown or smile, As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot;

I stood and stand alone, - remember'd or forgot. Byron's Childe Harold. But there are deeds which should not pass away, Plays round the head, but comes not near the And names that must not wither, though the earth

All fame is foreign, but of true desert;

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Ah me! full sorely is my heart forlorn
To think how modest worth neglected lies,
While partial fame doth with her blasts adorn
Such deeds alone, as pride and pomp disguise,
Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous emprise.

Shenstone's Schoolmistress.

Will fortune, fame, my present ills relieve?
And what is fame, that flutt'ring noisy sound,
But the cold lie of universal vogue?
Thousands of men fall in the field of honour,
Whose glorious deeds die in inglorious silence,
Whilst vaunting cowards, favour'd by blind fortune,
Reap all the fruit of their successful toils,
And build their fame upon their noble ruins.
H. Smith's Princess of Parma.

"Stern sons of war !" sad Wilfred sigh'd,
"Behold the boast of Roman pride!
What now of all your toils are known?
A grassy trench, a broken stone!"

Forgets her empires with a just decay,

The enslavers and the enslaved, their death and

birth;

The high, the mountain majesty of worth
Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe,
And from its immortality look forth
In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow,
Imperishably pure beyond all things below.
Byron's Childe Harold.
Thy fanes, thy temples to the surface bow,
Commingling slowly with heroic earth,
Broke by the share of every rustic plough:
So perish monuments of mortal birth,
So perish all in turn, save well-recorded worth.
Byron's Childe Harold.
What is the end of fame? 't is but to fill
A certain portion of uncertain paper;
Some liken it to climbing up a hill,
Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour;
For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill,
midnight
And bards burn what they call their “
taper,"

To have, when the original is dust,
A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust.

Byron.

And glory long has made the sages smile;
"Tis something, nothing, words, illusion, wind-
Depending more upon the historian's style
Than on the name a person leaves behind.

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