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

More quotes by Charles Churchill

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The Scots are poor, cries surly English pride True is the charge, nor by themselves denied. Are they not then in strictest reason clear, Who wisely come to mend their fortunes here?
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When fiction rises pleasing to the eye, men will believe, because they love the lie but truth herself, if clouded with a frown, must have some solemn proof to pass her down.
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Nature listening stood, whilst Shakespeare play'd And wonder'd at the work herself had made.
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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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Though by whim, envy, or resentment led, they damn those authors whom they never read.
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To copy faults is want of sense.
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The best things carried to excess are wrong.
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The surest way to health, say what they will, Is never to suppose we shall be ill Most of the ills which we poor mortals know From doctors and imagination flow.
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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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Amongst the sons of men how few are known Who dare be just to merit not their own.
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Fool beckons fool, and dunce awakens dunce.
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Whom drink made wits, though nature made them fools.
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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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Man and wife, Coupled together for the sake of strife.
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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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Truth! why shall every wretch of letters Dare to speak truth against his betters! Let ragged virtue stand aloof, Nor mutter accents of reproof Let ragged wit a mute become, When wealth and power would have her dumb.
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By different methods different men excel, but where is he who can do all things well?
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Patience is sorrow's salve.
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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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Constant attention wears the active mind, Blots out our pow'rs, and leaves a blank behind.
Charles Churchill