On Ambition a Sonnet

ON AMBITION

What boots it that the worm should keep his place,

Or that the mole content him with the dark?

The eagle mounts and scorns the lower race

And flies where falcons dare not set their mark.

So I, whom nature framed of meaner clay

Than lords or sons of celebrated blood,

Refuse to grovel out my little day

And sink unknown into the common mud.

Let Daedalus lament his waxen wings;

Let Icarus be figured as a fool;

The fame of those who fall forever rings

While he that creeps hath made himself a tool.

Build high, though Heav’n itself cry out for shame:

The fire that damns me first shall gild my name.