Classic Poem

Let Fools, whose, dying Fame requires to have
Like their own Carcasses a Grave,
Let them with vain Expence adorn
Some costly Urn,
Which shortly, like themselves, to Dust shall turn.
Here lacks no Carian Sepulchre,
Which Ruin shall e'er long in its own Tomb interr;
No fond Egyptian Fabric built so high
As if 'twould climb the Sky,
And thence reach Immortality.
Thy Vertues shall embalm thy Name,
And make it lasting as the Breath of Fame.
When frailer Brass
Shall moulder by a quick Decrease;
When brittle Marble shall decay,
And to the Jaws of Time become a Prey.
Thy Praise shall live, when Graves shall buried lie,
Till Time it self shall die,
And yield its triple Empire to Eternity.