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

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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?
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Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.
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It can't be Nature, for it is not sense.
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With that malignant envy which turns pale, And sickens, even if a friend prevail.
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Weak is that throne, and in itself unsound, Which takes not solid virtue for its ground.
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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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Genius is independent of situation.
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Great use they have, when in the hands Of one like me, who understands, Who understands the time and place, The person, manner, and the grace, Which fools neglect so that we find, If all the requisites are join'd, From whence a perfect joke must spring, A joke's a very serious thing.
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Truth! why shall every wretch of letters Dare to speak truth against his betters! Let ragged virtue stand aloof, Nor mutter accents of reproof Let ragged wit a mute become, When wealth and power would have her dumb.
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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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Whom drink made wits, though nature made them fools.
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Nature listening stood, whilst Shakespeare play'd And wonder'd at the work herself had made.
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By different methods different men excel, but where is he who can do all things well?
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And reputation bleeds in ev'ry word.
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With curious art the brain, too finely wrought, Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought.
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If you mean to profit, learn to praise.
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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.
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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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