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
Firsts
Planning
Patch
First
Worse
Gypsy
Like
Fame
Purses
Plans
Patches
Gypsies
Known
Lest
Brat
Makes
Wretched
Plagiarism
Stills
Stolen
Claiming
Still
Fill
Purse

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The best things carried to excess are wrong.
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Constant attention wears the active mind, Blots out our pow'rs, and leaves a blank behind.
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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.
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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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Fool beckons fool, and dunce awakens dunce.
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Weak is that throne, and in itself unsound, Which takes not solid virtue for its ground.
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With curious art the brain, too finely wrought, Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought.
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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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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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Be England what she will, With all her faults she is my country still.
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Within the brain's most secret cells, A certain lord chief justice dwells, Of sov'reign power, whom one and all, With common voice we reason call.
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Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.
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Nature listening stood, whilst Shakespeare play'd And wonder'd at the work herself had made.
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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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Wit, who never once Forgave a brother, shall forgive a dunce.
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Genius is of no country her pure ray Spreads all abroad, as general as the day.
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He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
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It can't be Nature, for it is not sense.
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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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