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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
Envied
Prevail
Pale
Envy
Friend
Turns
Even
Sickens
Malignant

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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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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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Constant attention wears the active mind, Blots out our pow'rs, and leaves a blank behind.
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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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Amongst the sons of men how few are known Who dare be just to merit not their own.
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To copy faults is want of sense.
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Quick-circulating slanders mirth afford and reputation bleeds in every word.
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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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With curious art the brain, too finely wrought, Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought.
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He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.
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Genius is independent of situation.
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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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It can't be Nature, for it is not sense.
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Genius is of no country.
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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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Weak is that throne, and in itself unsound, Which takes not solid virtue for its ground.
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Tis mighty easy o'er a glass of wine On vain refinements vainly to refine, To laugh at poverty in plenty's reign, To boast of apathy when out of pain, And in each sentence, worthy of the schools, Varnish'd with sophistry, to deal out rules Most fit for practice, but for one poor fault That into practice they can ne'er be brought.
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Genius is of no country her pure ray Spreads all abroad, as general as the day.
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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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