The Consolation of Philosophy

He that to honour only seeks to mount

And that his chiefest end doth count,

Let him behold the largeness of the skies

And on the strait earth cast his eyes;

He will despise the glory of his name,

Which cannot fill so small a frame.

Why do proud men scorn that their necks should bear

That yoke which every man must wear?

Though fame through many nations fly along

And should be blazed by every tongue,

And houses shine with our forefathers' stories,

Yet Death contemns these stately glories,

And, summoning both rich and poor to die,

Makes the low equal with the high.

Who knows where faithful Fabrice' bones are pressed,

Where Brutus and strict Cato rest?¹

A slender fame consigns their titles vain

In some few letters to remain.

Because their famous names in books we read,

Come we by them to know the dead?

You dying, then, remembered are by none,

Nor any fame can make you known.

But if you think that life outstrippeth death,

Your names borne up with mortal breath,

When length of time takes this away likewise,

A second death shall you surprise.