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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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To copy faults is want of sense.
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Patience is sorrow's salve.
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Genius is independent of situation.
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Amongst the sons of men how few are known Who dare be just to merit not their own.
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Man and wife, Coupled together for the sake of strife.
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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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Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.
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Whom drink made wits, though nature made them fools.
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Genius is of no country.
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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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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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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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Be England what she will, With all her faults she is my country still.
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Genius is of no country her pure ray Spreads all abroad, as general as the day.
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With curious art the brain, too finely wrought, Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought.
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Quick-circulating slanders mirth afford and reputation bleeds in every word.
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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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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, 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.
Charles Churchill