Faith builds a bridge across the gulf of Death,
To break the shock blind nature cannot shun.
And lands Thought smoothly on the further shore.
FALCON
The falcon and the dove sit there together,
And th' one of them doth prune the other's feather.
Say, will the falcon, stooping from above,
Smit with her varying plumage, spare the dove?
Admires the jay the insect's gilded wings?
Or hears the hawk when Philomela sings?
A falcon, tow'ring in her pride of place,
Was by a mousing owl hawk'd at and kill'd.
My falcon now is sharp, and passing empty;
And till she stoop, she must not be full-gorg'd,
For then she never looks upon her lure.
FALSEHOOD (See Lying)
FAME
A niche in the temple of Fame.
Were not this desire of fame very strong, the
difficulty of obtaining it, and the danger of
losing it when obtained, would be sufficient to
deter a man from so vain a pursuit.
And what after all is everlasting fame? Altogether vanity.
Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb
The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar!
Nothing can cover his high fame but Heaven:
No pyramids set off his memories
But the eternal substance of his greatness;
To which I leave him.
The best-concerted schemes men lay for fame,
Die fast away: only themselves die faster.
The far-fam'd sculptor, and the laurell'd bard,
Those bold insurancers of deathless fame,
Supply their little feeble aids in vain.
Blair—The Grave. L. 185.
| seealso = (See also Burns under Disappointment)
| topic =
| page =
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>Herostratus lives that burnt the temple of
Diana; he is almost lost that built it.
Sir Thomas Browne—Hydriotaphia. Ch. V.
| seealso = (See also {{sc|Cibber)
What is the end of Fame? 'tis 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,
And bards burn what they call their "midnight
taper,"
To have, when the original is dust,
A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust.
Byron—Don Juan. Canto I. St. 218.
I awoke one morning and found myself famous.
| author = Byron
| work = From Moore's IAfe ofBryon.
.
Folly loves the martyrdom of fame.
| author = Byron
| work = Monody on the Death of Sheridan.
L. 68.
.
O Fame!—if I e'er took delight in thy praises,
'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding
phrases,
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
| author = Byron
| work = Stanzas Written on the Road Between
Florence and Pisa.
.
Fame, we may understand, is no sure test of
merit, but only a probability of such: it is an
accident, not a property of a man.
Carlyle—Essay. Goethe.
Scarcely two hundred years back can Fame
recollect articulately at all; and there she but
maunders and mumbles.
Carlyle—Past and Present. Ch. XVII.
Men the most infamous are fond of fame,
And those who fear not guilt, yet start at shame.
Churchill—The Author. L. 233.
The aspiring youth that fired the Ephesian dome
Outlives, in fame, the pious fool that rais'd it.
Colley Ctbber—Richard III. (Altered.)
Act III. Sc. 1.
| seealso = (See also Browne)
| topic =
| page =
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>Je ne dois qu'a moi seul toute ma renommee.
To myself alone do I owe my fame.
Corneille—L'Excuse a Ariste.
Non 6 il mondam romore altro che un fiato
Di vento, che vien quinci ed or vien quindi,
E muta nome, perche muta lato.
The splendors that belong unto the fame of
earth are but a wind, that in the same direction lasts not long.
Dante—Purgatoria. XI. 100.
La vostra nominanza é color d'erba,
Che viene e va; e quei la discolora
Per cui ell' esce della terra acerba.
All your renown is like the summer flower that blooms and dies; because the sunny glow which brings it forth, soon slays with parching power.
