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One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.

Thomas Gray

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Thomas Gray
Age: 54 †
Born: 1716
Born: December 26
Died: 1771
Died: July 30
Literary Critic
Poet
London
England
Characteristics
Vices
Fame
Present
Characteristic
Age
Principal
Contempt
Vice

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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,/ The bee's collected treasure sweet,/ Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet/ The still small voice of gratitude.
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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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Now as the Paradisiacal pleasures of the Mahometans consist in playing upon the flute and lying with Houris, be mine to read eternal new romances of Marivaux and Crebillon.
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Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart.
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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
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When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.
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Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to mis'ry (all he had) a tear, He gained from Heav'n ('t was all he wish'd) a friend.
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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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Her track, where'er the goddess roves, Glory pursue, and gen'rous shame, Th' unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame.
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We frolic while 'tis May.
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T'was Spring, t'was Summer, all was gay Now Autumn bears a cloud brow The flowers of Spring are swept way And Summer fruits desert the bough
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Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch A broader browner shade Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech O'er-canopies the glade, Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think.
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Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly rising o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes, Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm.
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The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Thomas Gray