Chapter 393

O for a lodge in some vast wilderness, Some boundless contiguity of shade, Where rumor of oppression and deceit, Of unsuccessful or successful war, Might never roach me more.

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Mountains interposed Make enemies of nations, who had else, Like kindred drops, been mingled into one.

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England, with all thy faults, I love thee still.

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Praise enough To fill the ambition of a private man, That Chatham's language was his mother tongue.

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There is a pleasure in poetic pains Which only poets know.

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Variety's the very spice of life, That gives it all its flavor.

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