Book iii.
His love for his country:
England, with all thy faults I love thee still-- My country! and, while yet a nook is left, Where English minds and manners may be found, Shall be constrain'd to love thee. Tho' thy clime Be fickle, and thy year most part deform'd With dripping rains, or wither'd by a frost, I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies, And fields without a flower, for warmer France With all her vines; nor for Ausonia's groves Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bow'rs.