Who often, but without success, have prayed for apt Alliteration's artful aid.
It can't be Nature, for it is not sense.
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.
Genius is nothing more than inflamed enthusiasm.
Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.