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Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends He hurts me most who lavishly commends.

Charles Churchill

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Charles Churchill
Died: 1764
Died: November 4
Poet
Writer
City of Westminster
Friendship
Commends
Hurt
Lavishly
Friends
Dreads
Foes
Foe
Greatly
Hurts
Dread

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Who, with tame cowardice familiar grown, would hear my thoughts, but fear to speak their own.
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To copy faults is want of sense.
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With curious art the brain, too finely wrought, Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought.
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Genius is independent of situation.
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Genius is of no country her pure ray Spreads all abroad, as general as the day.
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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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Nature listening stood, whilst Shakespeare play'd And wonder'd at the work herself had made.
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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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Man and wife, Coupled together for the sake of strife.
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Weak is that throne, and in itself unsound, Which takes not solid virtue for its ground.
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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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The rigid saint, by whom no mercy's shown To saints whose lives are better than his own.
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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.
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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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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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The best things carried to excess are wrong.
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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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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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He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.
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