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Fame is the spur that the clear Spirit doth raise

(That last infirmity of noble minds)

To scorn delights and live laborious days;

But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,

And think to burst out into sudden blaze,

Comes the blind fury with the abhorred shears,

And slits the thin-spun life. But not the praise

Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears ;

Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,

Nor in the glistering foil

Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies,

But lives and Spreads aloft by those pure eyes

And perfect witness of all-judging Jove.”

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