As more than number'd in the sum of days,
More certain is: as immortality
Abound upon those prophet-trodden ways;
In silent chorus let thy virgins sing:
Be all the wealth of all their virtue thine:
Yet all for naught. How should that honour bring
To thee his lyre's music, though divine?
Then make thy choice: not seer's sacred part
Is offer'd thee, nor glory to thy name;
But in the splendour of the Muse's Art,
Thy soul be all, and all that thou mayst claim.
If yet thou speak'st of honour and disdain,
Look what thy memory cannot contain.
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