Nor Waste Their Sweetness In The Desert

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

It Can't Be Nature, For It Is Not Sense.

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

In The First Seat, In Robe Of Various Dyes, A Noble Wildness Flashing From His Eyes, Sat Shakespeare: In One Hand A Wand He Bore, For Mighty Wonders Fam'd In Days Of Yore: The Other Held A Globe, Which To His Will Obedient Turn'd, And Own'd The Master's Skill: Things Of The Noblest Kind His Genius Drew, And Look'd Through Nature At A Single View: A Loose He Gave To His Unbounded Soul, And Taught New Lands To Rise, New Seas To Roll; Call'd Into Being Scenes Unknown Before, And Passing Nature's Bounds, Was Something More.

Weak Is That Throne, And In Itself Unsound, Which Takes Not Solid Virtue For Its Ground.