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To copy faults is want of sense.

Charles Churchill

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Charles Churchill
Died: 1764
Died: November 4
Poet
Writer
City of Westminster
Copies
Faults
Sense
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Genius is of no country her pure ray Spreads all abroad, as general as the day.
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The oak, when living, monarch of the wood The English oak, which, dead, commands the flood.
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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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By different methods different men excel, but where is he who can do all things well?
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The best things carried to excess are wrong.
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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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If you mean to profit, learn to praise.
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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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Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.
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Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.
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Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
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With that malignant envy which turns pale, And sickens, even if a friend prevail.
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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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It can't be Nature, for it is not sense.
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Patience is sorrow's salve.
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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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Be England what she will, With all her faults she is my country still.
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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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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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Man and wife, Coupled together for the sake of strife.
Charles Churchill