Her native farm, her reason, quite untill’d.
With mix’d manure she surfeits the rank soil,
Dung’d, but not dress’d; and rich to beggary.
A pomp untameable of weeds prevails.
Her servant’s wealth, encumber’d wisdom mourns. 263
And what says Genius? “Let the dull be wise.”
Genius, too hard for right, can prove it wrong;
And loves to boast, where blush men less inspired.
It pleads exemption from the laws of sense;
Considers reason as a leveller;