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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
Cups
Fortune
Telling
Rous
England
Toss
Fate
Grounds
Stars
Boast
Tea
Host

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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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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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Enough of satire in less harden'd times Great was her force, and mighty were her rhymes. I've read of men, beyond man's daring brave, Who yet have trembled at the strokes she gave Whose souls have felt more terrible alarms From her one line, than from a world in arms.
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Genius is independent of situation.
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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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Weak is that throne, and in itself unsound, Which takes not solid virtue for its ground.
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Satire, whilst envy and ill-humor sway The mind of man, must always make her way Nor to a bosom, with discretion fraught, Is all her malice worth a single thought. The wise have not the will, nor fools the power, To stop her headstrong course within the hour Left to herself, she dies opposing strife Gives her fresh vigor, and prolongs her life.
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It can't be Nature, for it is not sense.
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With curious art the brain, too finely wrought, Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought.
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Patience is sorrow's salve.
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If you mean to profit, learn to praise.
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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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Within the brain's most secret cells, A certain lord chief justice dwells, Of sov'reign power, whom one and all, With common voice we reason call.
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He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.
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The oak, when living, monarch of the wood The English oak, which, dead, commands the flood.
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Whom drink made wits, though nature made them fools.
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Who, with tame cowardice familiar grown, would hear my thoughts, but fear to speak their own.
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Genius is of no country.
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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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