He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.
Men the most infamous are fond of fame, And those who fear not guilt yet start at shame.
On the four aces doom'd to roll.
No tribute is laid on castles in the air.
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.