Others may use the ocean as their road; Only the English make it their abode.
Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.
So must the writer, whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould.
All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.
Poets that lasting marble seek, Must come in Latin or in Greek.
Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade And keeps that palace of the soul serene.