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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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Weak is that throne, and in itself unsound, Which takes not solid virtue for its ground.
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Nature listening stood, whilst Shakespeare play'd And wonder'd at the work herself had made.
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Genius is independent of situation.
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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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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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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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Whom drink made wits, though nature made them fools.
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Within the brain's most secret cells, A certain lord chief justice dwells, Of sov'reign power, whom one and all, With common voice we reason call.
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Constant attention wears the active mind, Blots out our pow'rs, and leaves a blank behind.
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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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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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To copy faults is want of sense.
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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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Who, with tame cowardice familiar grown, would hear my thoughts, but fear to speak their own.
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Even in a hero's heart Discretion is the better part.
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Wit, who never once Forgave a brother, shall forgive a dunce.
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Who to patch up his fame, or fill his purse, Still pilfers wretched plans, and makes them worse Like gypsies, lest the stolen brat be known, Defacing first, then claiming for his 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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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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He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
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