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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
Destroyed
Brain
Art
Preys
Thought
Finely
Wrought
Prey
Curiosity
Curious

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Who, with tame cowardice familiar grown, would hear my thoughts, but fear to speak their 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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Fool beckons fool, and dunce awakens dunce.
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Gipsies, who every ill can cure, Except the ill of being poor Who charms 'gainst love and agues sell, Who can in hen-roost set a spell, Prepar'd by arts, to them best known To catch all feet except their own, Who, as to fortune, can unlock it, As easily as pick a pocket.
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He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.
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Genius is of no country.
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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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Nature listening stood, whilst Shakespeare play'd And wonder'd at the work herself had made.
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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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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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Even in a hero's heart Discretion is the better part.
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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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Constant attention wears the active mind, Blots out our pow'rs, and leaves a blank behind.
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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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Whom drink made wits, though nature made them fools.
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The oak, when living, monarch of the wood The English oak, which, dead, commands the flood.
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Weak is that throne, and in itself unsound, Which takes not solid virtue for its ground.
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And reputation bleeds in ev'ry word.
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Man and wife, Coupled together for the sake of strife.
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Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.
Charles Churchill