Patience is sorrow's salve.
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.
Who often, but without success, have prayed for apt Alliteration's artful aid.
To copy beauty forfeits all pretense to fame; to copy faults is want of sense
Genius is of no country; her pure ray Spreads all abroad, as general as the day.
It can't be Nature, for it is not sense.