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

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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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The rigid saint, by whom no mercy's shown To saints whose lives are better than his own.
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Whom drink made wits, though nature made them fools.
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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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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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Be England what she will, With all her faults she is my country still.
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Quick-circulating slanders mirth afford and reputation bleeds in every word.
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Wit, who never once Forgave a brother, shall forgive a dunce.
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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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Genius is of no country.
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To copy faults is want of sense.
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Gipsies, who every ill can cure, Except the ill of being poor Who charms 'gainst love and agues sell, Who can in hen-roost set a spell, Prepar'd by arts, to them best known To catch all feet except their own, Who, as to fortune, can unlock it, As easily as pick a pocket.
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Genius is of no country her pure ray Spreads all abroad, as general as the day.
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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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The best things carried to excess are wrong.
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Patience is sorrow's salve.
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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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And reputation bleeds in ev'ry word.
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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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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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