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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
Virtue
Mute
Shall
Accents
Speak
Wit
Mutter
Become
Dumb
Betters
Truth
Dare
Reproof
Power
Letters
Wretch
Every
Wealth
Ragged
Would
Stand
Aloof

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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.
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Even in a hero's heart Discretion is the better part.
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He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.
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Patience is sorrow's salve.
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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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Quick-circulating slanders mirth afford and reputation bleeds in every word.
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Man and wife, Coupled together for the sake of strife.
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Fool beckons fool, and dunce awakens dunce.
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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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Who, with tame cowardice familiar grown, would hear my thoughts, but fear to speak their own.
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Drawn by conceit from reason's plan How vain is that poor creature man How pleas'd in ev'ry paltry elf To grate about that thing himself.
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If you mean to profit, learn to praise.
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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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Genius is independent of situation.
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Wit, who never once Forgave a brother, shall forgive a dunce.
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Whom drink made wits, though nature made them fools.
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Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
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Weak is that throne, and in itself unsound, Which takes not solid virtue for its ground.
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Nature listening stood, whilst Shakespeare play'd And wonder'd at the work herself had made.
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With that malignant envy which turns pale, And sickens, even if a friend prevail.
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