A translation of Boëthius, book 2 verse 7

WHo onely honour seeks with prone affection,
And thinks that glory is his greatest blisse;
First let him view the heav'ns wide-stretched section,
Then in some mappe the earths short narrownesse:
Well may he blush to see his name not able
To fill one quarter of so brief a table.

Why then should high-grow'n mindes so much rejoyce
To draw their stubborn necks from mans subjection?
For though loud fame stretch high her pratling voice
To blaze abroad their vertues great pefection;
Though goodly titles of their house adorn them
With ancient Heraldrie, yet death doth scorn them:
The high and base lie in the self same grave;
No difference there between a King and slave.

Where now are true Fabricius bones remaining?
Who knowes where Brutus, or rough Cato lives?
Onely a weak report, their names sustaining,
In records old a slender knowledge gives:
Yet when we reade the deeds of men inhumed,
Can we by that know them, long since consumed?

Now therefore lie you buried and forgotten;
Nor can report frustrate encroaching death:
Or if you think when you are dead, and rotten,
You live again by fame, and vulgar breath;
When with times shadows this false glory wanes,
You die again: but this your glorie gains.