God made the county, and man made the town.[20]
Book ii. The Timepiece.
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.
Mountains interposed
Make enemies of nations, who had else,
Like kindred drops, been mingled into one.
England, with all thy faults, I love thee still.
Praise enough
To fill the ambition of a private man,
That Chatham's language was his mother tongue.