Quote

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.

Charles Churchill

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Charles Churchill
Died: 1764
Died: November 4
Poet
Writer
City of Westminster
Known
Lest
Brat
Makes
Wretched
Plagiarism
Stills
Stolen
Claiming
Still
Fill
Purse
Firsts
Planning
Patch
First
Worse
Gypsy
Like
Fame
Purses
Plans
Patches
Gypsies

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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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Even in a hero's heart Discretion is the better part.
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The best things carried to excess are wrong.
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Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.
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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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Be England what she will, With all her faults she is my country still.
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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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The oak, when living, monarch of the wood The English oak, which, dead, commands the flood.
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And reputation bleeds in ev'ry word.
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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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Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
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What is this world?--A term which men have got, To signify not one in ten knows what A term, which with no more precision passes To point out herds of men than herds of asses In common use no more it means, we find, Than many fools in same opinions joined.
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It can't be Nature, for it is not sense.
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Genius is of no country.
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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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Though by whim, envy, or resentment led, they damn those authors whom they never read.
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Nature listening stood, whilst Shakespeare play'd And wonder'd at the work herself had made.
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Tis mighty easy o'er a glass of wine On vain refinements vainly to refine, To laugh at poverty in plenty's reign, To boast of apathy when out of pain, And in each sentence, worthy of the schools, Varnish'd with sophistry, to deal out rules Most fit for practice, but for one poor fault That into practice they can ne'er be brought.
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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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He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
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