Nor Waste Their Sweetness In The Desert

With That Malignant Envy Which Turns Pale, And Sickens, Even If A Friend Prevail.

On The Four Aces Doom'd To Roll.

Wherever Waves Can Roll, And Winds Can Blow.

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

Who, With Tame Cowardice Familiar Grown, Would Hear My Thoughts, But Fear To Speak Their Own.