Drawn By Conceit From Reason's Plan How

The Best Things Carried To Excess Are Wrong.

England, A Happy Land We Know, Where Follies Naturally Grow, Where Without Culture They Arise, And Tow'r Above The Common Size.

Who All In Raptures Their Own Works Rehearse, And Drawl Out Measur'd Prose, Which They Call Verse.

Who Shall Dispute What The Reviewers Say? Their Word's Sufficient; And To Ask A Reason, In Such A State As Theirs, Is Downright Treason.

Satire, Whilst Envy And Ill-humor Sway The Mind Of Man, Must Always Make Her Way; Nor To A Bosom, With Discretion Fraught, Is All Her Malice Worth A Single Thought. The Wise Have Not The Will, Nor Fools The Power, To Stop Her Headstrong Course; Within The Hour Left To Herself, She Dies; Opposing Strife Gives Her Fresh Vigor, And Prolongs Her Life.