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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
Wrought
Prey
Curiosity
Curious
Destroyed
Brain
Art
Preys
Thought
Finely

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Though by whim, envy, or resentment led, they damn those authors whom they never read.
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The oak, when living, monarch of the wood The English oak, which, dead, commands the flood.
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If you mean to profit, learn to praise.
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He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.
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Who all in raptures their own works rehearse, And drawl out measur'd prose, which they call verse.
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With that malignant envy which turns pale, And sickens, even if a friend prevail.
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Genius is of no country.
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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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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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Nature listening stood, whilst Shakespeare play'd And wonder'd at the work herself had made.
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Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.
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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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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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Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
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Be England what she will, With all her faults she is my country still.
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Weak is that throne, and in itself unsound, Which takes not solid virtue for its ground.
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To copy faults is want of sense.
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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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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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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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