A thought.

[illgotten]

Your names will be forgotten. When the last trumpet has sounded, when they call the roll of the immortal and the damned, you will not be called. Within a generation, you will be no more than names; within a century, no more than shadows. You will not be venerated, you will not be respected, and you will not be hated. Who hates the scorpion's dead husk, or the dust into which it crumbles?

There are men who live forever, in glory or in shame. You are not among them.