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With curious art the brain, too finely wrought, Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought.

Charles Churchill

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Charles Churchill
Died: 1764
Died: November 4
Poet
Writer
City of Westminster
Prey
Curiosity
Curious
Destroyed
Brain
Art
Preys
Thought
Finely
Wrought

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Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
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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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Man and wife, Coupled together for the sake of strife.
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Though by whim, envy, or resentment led, they damn those authors whom they never read.
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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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Whom drink made wits, though nature made them fools.
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Constant attention wears the active mind, Blots out our pow'rs, and leaves a blank behind.
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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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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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With that malignant envy which turns pale, And sickens, even if a friend prevail.
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And reputation bleeds in ev'ry word.
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Nature listening stood, whilst Shakespeare play'd And wonder'd at the work herself had made.
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The oak, when living, monarch of the wood The English oak, which, dead, commands the flood.
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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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To copy faults is want of sense.
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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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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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Quick-circulating slanders mirth afford and reputation bleeds in every word.
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Be England what she will, With all her faults she is my country still.
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No two on earth in all things can agree All have some darling singularity Women and men, as well as girls and boys, In gewgaws take delight, and sigh for toys, Your sceptres and your crowns, and such like things, Are but a better kind of toys for kings. In things indifferent reason bids us choose, Whether the whim's a monkey or a muse.
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