Why, I'm Posterity—and so are you;

And whom do we remember? Not a hundred.

Were every memory written down all true,

The tenth or twentieth name would be but blundered;

Even Plutarch's Lives have but picked out a few,

And 'gainst those few your annalists have thundered;

And Mitford ⁷³ in the nineteenth century

Gives, with Greek truth, the good old Greek the lie.