Where are now the bones of stanch Fabricius? Brutus, Cato⁠—where are they? Lingering fame, with a few graven letters, Doth their empty name display.

But to know the great dead is not given From a gilded name alone; Nay, ye all alike must lie forgotten, ’Tis not you that fame makes known.

Fondly do ye deem life’s little hour Lengthened by fame’s mortal breath; There but waits you⁠—when this, too, is taken⁠— At the last a second death.