THE Fame we covet is a wand'ring air, Which against Silence wages constant war; For to be mute does her so much displease, That true, or false, she seldom holds her peace; She but a while can in a place remain, 'Tis running up and down, does her sustain; Tho' dead she seem, she quickly can revive, And with a thousand tongues, a Hydra live. |