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England a fortune-telling host, As num'rous as the stars, could boast Matrons, who toss the cup, and see The grounds of Fate in grounds of tea.

Charles Churchill

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Charles Churchill
Died: 1764
Died: November 4
Poet
Writer
City of Westminster
Host
Cups
Fortune
Telling
Rous
England
Toss
Fate
Grounds
Stars
Boast
Tea

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Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.
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Nature, through all her works, in great degree, Borrows a blessing from variety. Music itself her needful aid requires To rouse the soul, and wake our dying fires.
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Drawn by conceit from reason's plan How vain is that poor creature man How pleas'd in ev'ry paltry elf To grate about that thing himself.
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Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.
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Be England what she will, With all her faults she is my country still.
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And reputation bleeds in ev'ry word.
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Fool beckons fool, and dunce awakens dunce.
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It can't be Nature, for it is not sense.
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Enough of self, that darling luscious theme, O'er which philosophers in raptures dream Of which with seeming disregard they write Then prizing most when most they seem to slight.
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Genius is independent of situation.
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No two on earth in all things can agree All have some darling singularity Women and men, as well as girls and boys, In gewgaws take delight, and sigh for toys, Your sceptres and your crowns, and such like things, Are but a better kind of toys for kings. In things indifferent reason bids us choose, Whether the whim's a monkey or a muse.
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Who all in raptures their own works rehearse, And drawl out measur'd prose, which they call verse.
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Though folly, robed in purple, shines, Though vice exhausts Peruvian mines, Yet shall they tremble and turn pale When satire wields her mighty flail.
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Genius is of no country her pure ray Spreads all abroad, as general as the day.
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Gipsies, who every ill can cure, Except the ill of being poor Who charms 'gainst love and agues sell, Who can in hen-roost set a spell, Prepar'd by arts, to them best known To catch all feet except their own, Who, as to fortune, can unlock it, As easily as pick a pocket.
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If you mean to profit, learn to praise.
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Who to patch up his fame, or fill his purse, Still pilfers wretched plans, and makes them worse Like gypsies, lest the stolen brat be known, Defacing first, then claiming for his own.
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Weak is that throne, and in itself unsound, Which takes not solid virtue for its ground.
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Amongst the sons of men how few are known Who dare be just to merit not their own.
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With that malignant envy which turns pale, And sickens, even if a friend prevail.
Charles Churchill