To copy beauty forfeits all pretense to fame; to copy faults is want of sense

To copy beauty forfeits all pretense to fame; to copy faults is want of sense.

Be England what she will, With all her faults she is my country still

Men the most infamous are fond of fame, And those who fear not guilt, yet start at shame.

Be England what she will, with all her faults she is my country still.

It can't be Nature, for it is not sense.