To Copy Faults Is Want Of Sense.

By Different Methods Different Men Excel, But Where Is He Who Can Do All Things Well?

The Scots Are Poor, Cries Surly English Pride; True Is The Charge, Nor By Themselves Denied. Are They Not Then In Strictest Reason Clear, Who Wisely Come To Mend Their Fortunes Here?

Enough Of Self, That Darling Luscious Theme, O'er Which Philosophers In Raptures Dream; Of Which With Seeming Disregard They Write Then Prizing Most When Most They Seem To Slight.

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

Nature Listening Stood, Whilst Shakespeare Play'd And Wonder'd At The Work Herself Had Made.