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The oak, when living, monarch of the wood The English oak, which, dead, commands the flood.

Charles Churchill

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Charles Churchill
Died: 1764
Died: November 4
Poet
Writer
City of Westminster
Flood
Command
Woods
English
Monarch
Dead
Monarchs
Living
Oaks
Commands
Wood

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Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.
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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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Weak is that throne, and in itself unsound, Which takes not solid virtue for its ground.
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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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To copy faults is want of sense.
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If you mean to profit, learn to praise.
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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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Wit, who never once Forgave a brother, shall forgive a dunce.
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Genius is independent of situation.
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And reputation bleeds in ev'ry word.
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Patience is sorrow's salve.
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Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.
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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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It can't be Nature, for it is not sense.
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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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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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Nature listening stood, whilst Shakespeare play'd And wonder'd at the work herself had made.
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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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Man and wife, Coupled together for the sake of strife.
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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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