What has a man but honour? When 'tis gone
The man is gone: for all that in him blent
To strike a star for men to gaze upon
Becomes his quicker ruin's instrument.
For from that height to which with toil we climb,
From that we fall and to the further pit,
Who honour bore and lost. This is my crime
And this the daily punishment of it:--
To honour honour more than e'er I did
When I possessed it, to esteem the lot
Of those whose treasure from themselves lies hid
Or those who lose it and yet miss it not.
O God, now raise me to the thing forbid
Or from my eyes its pure light wholly blot!