Nor ever penetrate the silent urn.
Soame Jennins.
All fame is foreign, but of true desert;
Plays round the head, but comes not near the heart;
One self-approving hour whole years outweighs
Of stupid starers, and of loud huzzas;
And more true joy Marcellus exil’d feels,
Than Cæsar with a senate at his heels.
*****
And what is fame? the meanest have their day;