The greatest can but blaze, and pass away.

Pope.

I hate this Fame, false avarice of fancy,

The sickly shade of an unsolid greatness!

The lying lure of pride that Europe cheats by.

Hill.

Absurd! to think to overreach the grave,

And from the wreck of names to rescue ours:

The best concerted schemes men lay for fame,

Die fast away; only themselves die faster.