Charles Churchill Quotes
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.
Nature listening stood, whilst Shakespeare play'd And wonder'd at the work herself had made.
When satire flies abroad on falsehood's wing, Short is her life, and impotent her sting; But when to truth allied, the wound she gives Sinks deep, and to remotest ages lives.
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.
Weak is that throne, and in itself unsound, Which takes not solid virtue for its ground.
The rigid saint, by whom no mercy's shown To saints whose lives are better than his own.
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?
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.
Fashion--a word which knaves and fools may use, Their knavery and folly to excuse.
Old Age, a second child, by nature curst With more and greater evils than the first, Weak, sickly, full of pains: in ev'ry breath Railing at life, and yet afraid of death.
Though by whim, envy, or resentment led, they damn those authors whom they never read.
By different methods different men excel, but where is he who can do all things well?
Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends; He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
With curious art the brain, too finely wrought, Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought.
Men the most infamous are fond of fame, And those who fear not guilt yet start at shame.
Constant attention wears the active mind, Blots out our pow'rs, and leaves a blank behind.
With various readings stored his empty skull, Learn'd without sense, and venerably dull.
Amongst the sons of men how few are known Who dare be just to merit not their own.
Though folly, robed in purple, shines, Though vice exhausts Peruvian mines, Yet shall they tremble and turn pale When satire wields her mighty flail.
Keep up appearances; there lies the test. The world will give thee credit for the rest.
Who shall dispute what the Reviewers say? Their word's sufficient; and to ask a reason, In such a state as theirs, is downright treason.
There's a strange something, which without a brain Fools feel, and which e'en wise men can't explain, Planted in man, to bind him to that earth, In dearest ties, from whence he drew his birth.
Childhood, who like an April morn appears, Sunshine and rain, hopes clouded o'er with fears.
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.
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.
A servile race Who, in mere want of fault, all merit place; Who blind obedience pay to ancient schools, Bigots to Greece, and slaves to musty rules.
