Genius is of no country; her pure ray

He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.

Fashion—a word which knaves and fools may use, Their knavery and folly to excuse. To copy beauties, forfeits all pretence To fame—to copy faults, is want of sense.

Men the most infamous are fond of fame, And those who fear not guilt yet start at shame.

Who to patch up his fame, or fill his purse, Still pilfers wretched plans, and makes them worse; Like gypsies, lest the stolen brat be known, Defacing first, then claiming for his own.

He sickened at all triumphs but his own.

Not without Art, but yet to Nature true, She charms the town with humour just, yet new.