Fame

The evil that men do, lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones,

Ill shall we judge, if from the mouth of fame We mark the characters of vice and virtue, Here pageants rise, made by tradition heroes, Form'd by the poet or the loose historian; There you behold imaginary gods, Rais'd by the venal breath of slaves to heav'n, Swoln with the praise of fools, ignobly great, By lust, ambition, tyranny or rapine; While the good prince, whose soft indulgent nature Delights in peace, and blesses all with plenty Who smile beneath him, is revil'd and censur'd, As an inactive, useless, idle drone.