When fiction rises pleasing to the eye

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

He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.

He sickened at all triumphs but his own.

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.

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

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.