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.
Be England what she will, With all her faults she is my country still.
It can't be Nature, for it is not sense.
He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.
Genius is of no country; her pure ray Spreads all abroad, as general as the day.
Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.