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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.

Charles Churchill

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Charles Churchill
Died: 1764
Died: November 4
Poet
Writer
City of Westminster
Become
Dumb
Betters
Truth
Dare
Reproof
Letters
Wretch
Power
Wealth
Ragged
Every
Stand
Aloof
Would
Virtue
Mute
Shall
Accents
Speak
Wit
Mutter

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Though by whim, envy, or resentment led, they damn those authors whom they never read.
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Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.
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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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He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.
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He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
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The oak, when living, monarch of the wood The English oak, which, dead, commands the flood.
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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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Who all in raptures their own works rehearse, And drawl out measur'd prose, which they call verse.
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To copy faults is want of sense.
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Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.
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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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Be England what she will, With all her faults she is my country still.
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Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
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Who to patch up his fame, or fill his purse, Still pilfers wretched plans, and makes them worse Like gypsies, lest the stolen brat be known, Defacing first, then claiming for his own.
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By different methods different men excel, but where is he who can do all things well?
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Whom drink made wits, though nature made them fools.
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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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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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It can't be Nature, for it is not sense.
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And reputation bleeds in ev'ry word.
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