Gods, that never change their state, vary oft their love and hate.
Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, And every conqueror creates a muse.
Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade And keeps that palace of the soul serene.
The chain that's fixed to the throne of Jove, On which the fabric of our world depends, One link dissolved, the whole creation ends.
With wisdom fraught; not such as books, but such as practice taught.
Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.