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Fool beckons fool, and dunce awakens dunce.

Charles Churchill

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Charles Churchill
Died: 1764
Died: November 4
Poet
Writer
City of Westminster
Dunces
Awakens
Folly
Fool
Dunce
Beckons

More quotes by Charles Churchill

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With that malignant envy which turns pale, And sickens, even if a friend prevail.
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Genius is independent of situation.
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Who, with tame cowardice familiar grown, would hear my thoughts, but fear to speak their own.
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By different methods different men excel, but where is he who can do all things well?
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Man and wife, Coupled together for the sake of strife.
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Quick-circulating slanders mirth afford and reputation bleeds in every word.
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Be England what she will, With all her faults she is my country still.
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It can't be Nature, for it is not sense.
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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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Nature listening stood, whilst Shakespeare play'd And wonder'd at the work herself had made.
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The best things carried to excess are wrong.
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Weak is that throne, and in itself unsound, Which takes not solid virtue for its ground.
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Who all in raptures their own works rehearse, And drawl out measur'd prose, which they call verse.
Charles Churchill
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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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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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Though by whim, envy, or resentment led, they damn those authors whom they never read.
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He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
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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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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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Patience is sorrow's salve.
Charles Churchill