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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
Pale
Envy
Friend
Turns
Even
Sickens
Malignant
Envied
Prevail

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Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.
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Even in a hero's heart Discretion is the better part.
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Whom drink made wits, though nature made them fools.
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Quick-circulating slanders mirth afford and reputation bleeds in every word.
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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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Enough of satire in less harden'd times Great was her force, and mighty were her rhymes. I've read of men, beyond man's daring brave, Who yet have trembled at the strokes she gave Whose souls have felt more terrible alarms From her one line, than from a world in arms.
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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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And reputation bleeds in ev'ry word.
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It can't be Nature, for it is not sense.
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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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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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If you mean to profit, learn to praise.
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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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To copy faults is want of sense.
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Who, with tame cowardice familiar grown, would hear my thoughts, but fear to speak their own.
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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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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.
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England a fortune-telling host, As num'rous as the stars, could boast Matrons, who toss the cup, and see The grounds of Fate in grounds of tea.
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Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.
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Wit, who never once Forgave a brother, shall forgive a dunce.
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