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.
England a fortune-telling host, As num'rous as the stars, could boast; Matrons, who toss the cup, and see The grounds of Fate in grounds of tea.
To copy faults is want of sense.
No tribute is laid on castles in the air.