The list grows long of live and dead pretenders

To that which none will gain—or none will know

The conqueror at least; who, ere Time renders

His last award, will have the long grass grow

Above his burnt-out brain, and sapless cinders.

If I might augur, I should rate but low

Their chances;—they're too numerous, like the thirty  ⁵⁷ Mock tyrants, when Rome's annals waxed but dirty.