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Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.

Charles Churchill

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Charles Churchill
Died: 1764
Died: November 4
Poet
Writer
City of Westminster
Sweetness
Desert
Waste
Air

More quotes by Charles Churchill

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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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Man and wife, Coupled together for the sake of strife.
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Patience is sorrow's salve.
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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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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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Weak is that throne, and in itself unsound, Which takes not solid virtue for its ground.
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Genius is of no country.
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The rigid saint, by whom no mercy's shown To saints whose lives are better than his own.
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With curious art the brain, too finely wrought, Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought.
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Quick-circulating slanders mirth afford and reputation bleeds in every word.
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The best things carried to excess are wrong.
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Drawn by conceit from reason's plan How vain is that poor creature man How pleas'd in ev'ry paltry elf To grate about that thing himself.
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By different methods different men excel, but where is he who can do all things well?
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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.
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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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Fool beckons fool, and dunce awakens dunce.
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Even in a hero's heart Discretion is the better part.
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Whom drink made wits, though nature made them fools.
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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.
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Be England what she will, With all her faults she is my country still.
Charles Churchill