It can't be Nature, for it is not sense

He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.

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

He sickened at all triumphs but his own.

Genius is of no country; her pure ray Spreads all abroad, as general as the day.

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.

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.