Fame

Alexander Pope (1688–1744)

From “An Essay on Man,” Epistle IV.

WHAT ’s fame?—a fancied life in others’ breath,

A thing beyond us, e’en before our death.

Just what you hear, you have; and what ’s unknown

The same (my lord) if Tully’s, or your own.

All that we feel of it begins and ends

In the small circle of our foes or friends;

To all beside, as much an empty shade

A Eugene living as a Cæsar dead;

Alike or when or where they shone or shine,

Or on the Rubicon, or on the Rhine.

A wit ’s a feather, and a chief a rod;

An honest man ’s the noblest work of God.

Fame but from death a villain’s name can save,

As justice tears his body from the grave;

When what to oblivion better were resigned

Is hung on high, to poison half mankind.

All fame is foreign, but of true desert;

Plays round the head, but comes not to the heart:

One self-approving hour whole years outweighs

Of stupid starers and of loud huzzas;

And more true joy Marcellus exiled feels

Than Cæsar with a senate at his heels.