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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
Sickens
Even
Malignant
Envied
Prevail

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Quick-circulating slanders mirth afford and reputation bleeds in every word.
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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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The best things carried to excess are wrong.
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He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
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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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Genius is independent of situation.
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Even in a hero's heart Discretion is the better part.
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Weak is that throne, and in itself unsound, Which takes not solid virtue for its ground.
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Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
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He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.
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Constant attention wears the active mind, Blots out our pow'rs, and leaves a blank behind.
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Genius is of no country her pure ray Spreads all abroad, as general as the day.
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And reputation bleeds in ev'ry word.
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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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The oak, when living, monarch of the wood The English oak, which, dead, commands the flood.
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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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Though by whim, envy, or resentment led, they damn those authors whom they never read.
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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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Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.
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