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With that malignant envy which turns pale, And sickens, even if a friend prevail.

Charles Churchill

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Charles Churchill
Died: 1764
Died: November 4
Poet
Writer
City of Westminster
Prevail
Pale
Envy
Friend
Turns
Even
Sickens
Malignant
Envied

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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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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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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 her pure ray Spreads all abroad, as general as the day.
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Constant attention wears the active mind, Blots out our pow'rs, and leaves a blank behind.
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Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.
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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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And reputation bleeds in ev'ry word.
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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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He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.
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Who, with tame cowardice familiar grown, would hear my thoughts, but fear to speak their own.
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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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Though folly, robed in purple, shines, Though vice exhausts Peruvian mines, Yet shall they tremble and turn pale When satire wields her mighty flail.
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Quick-circulating slanders mirth afford and reputation bleeds in every word.
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Patience is sorrow's salve.
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Genius is independent of situation.
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Nature listening stood, whilst Shakespeare play'd And wonder'd at the work herself had made.
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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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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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