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

Little do such men know the toil, the pains, the daily, nightly racking of the brains, to range the thoughts, the matter to digest, to cull fit phrases, and reject the rest.

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.

The surest way to health, say what they will, Is never to suppose we shall be ill; Most of the ills which we poor mortals know From doctors and imagination flow.

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

With various readings stored his empty skull, Learn'd without sense, and venerably dull.

Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends; He hurts me most who lavishly commends.