Classic Poem

Fame what is fame a poor unwinning game
To gain a leas hold for a worldly name
A power whose stretch is finite not to be
The path discoverd of infinity —
Mere mortal words tho cloathed in witching ryhme
That loose their language in the book of time
& wear away into the food of worms
With the same substance that their beauty warms
Fame in a book if nothing else is fame
A spiders satire — tis not worth the name
The universal tongue thats spoke in heaven
Is all too far to be to mortals given
Yet fame alone the good mans deeds shall see
The praise & pass port of eternity.