Genius is of no country; her pure ray Spreads all abroad, as general as the day.
With curious art the brain, too finely wrought, Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought.
Be England what she will, With all her faults she is my country still.
The laws I love; the lawyers I suspect.
Though by whim, envy, or resentment led, they damn those authors whom they never read.
By different methods different men excel, but where is he who can do all things well?