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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.

Charles Churchill

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Charles Churchill
Died: 1764
Died: November 4
Poet
Writer
City of Westminster
Eye
Clouded
Truth
Pleasing
Must
Rises
Believe
Solemn
Men
Proof
Love
Pass
Fiction
Lying
Frown

More quotes by Charles Churchill

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He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.
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Patience is sorrow's salve.
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And reputation bleeds in ev'ry word.
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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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Fool beckons fool, and dunce awakens dunce.
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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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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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Though by whim, envy, or resentment led, they damn those authors whom they never read.
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Genius is independent of situation.
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Be England what she will, With all her faults she is my country still.
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Whom drink made wits, though nature made them fools.
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Weak is that throne, and in itself unsound, Which takes not solid virtue for its ground.
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By different methods different men excel, but where is he who can do all things well?
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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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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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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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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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Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.
Charles Churchill
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Genius is of no country.
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Who all in raptures their own works rehearse, And drawl out measur'd prose, which they call verse.
Charles Churchill