Wit, Who Never Once Forgave A Brother,

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

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

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

To Copy Beauty Forfeits All Pretense To Fame; To Copy Faults Is Want Of Sense

With Curious Art The Brain, Too Finely Wrought, Preys On Herself, And Is Destroyed By Thought.