It Can't Be Nature, For It Is

Be England What She Will, With All Her Faults She Is My Country Still.

There's A Strange Something, Which Without A Brain Fools Feel, And Which E'en Wise Men Can't Explain, Planted In Man, To Bind Him To That Earth, In Dearest Ties, From Whence He Drew His Birth.

The Oak, When Living, Monarch Of The Wood; The English Oak, Which, Dead, Commands The Flood.

The Danger Chiefly Lies In Acting Well; No Crime's So Great As Daring To Excel.

With Various Readings Stored His Empty Skull, Learn'd Without Sense, And Venerably Dull.