The soul is swelled with poisonous air, and a spark of temptation shall explode it.
Idle causes, noised awhile, shall yield most active consequents,
And therefore it were ill upon occasion to scorn the voice of rumour.
Ye have seen the chemist in his art mingle invisible gases;
And lo, the product is a substance, a heavy dark precipitate:
Even so fame, hurtling on the quiet with many meeting tongues,
Can out of nothing bring forth fruits, and blossom on a nourishment of air.
For many have earned honour, and thereby rank and riches,
From false and fleeting tales, some casual mere mistake;
And many have been wrecked upon disgrace, and have struggled with poverty and scorn,