Men the most infamous are fond of fame, And those who fear not guilt yet start at shame.
Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.
To copy faults is want of sense.
Be England what she will, With all her faults she is my country still.
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.
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.