It Can't Be Nature, For

The Surest Way To Health, Say What They Will, Is Never To Suppose We Shall Be Ill; Most Of The Ills Which We Poor Mortals Know From Doctors And Imagination Flow.

When Satire Flies Abroad On Falsehood's Wing, Short Is Her Life, And Impotent Her Sting; But When To Truth Allied, The Wound She Gives Sinks Deep, And To Remotest Ages Lives.

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

Greatly His Foes He Dreads, But More His Friends; He Hurts Me Most Who Lavishly Commends.

Genius Is Of No Country; Her Pure Ray Spreads All Abroad, As General As The Day.