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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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Weak is that throne, and in itself unsound, Which takes not solid virtue for its ground.
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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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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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Nature listening stood, whilst Shakespeare play'd And wonder'd at the work herself had made.
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Though by whim, envy, or resentment led, they damn those authors whom they never read.
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Quick-circulating slanders mirth afford and reputation bleeds in every word.
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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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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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With that malignant envy which turns pale, And sickens, even if a friend prevail.
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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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Amongst the sons of men how few are known Who dare be just to merit not 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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Who all in raptures their own works rehearse, And drawl out measur'd prose, which they call verse.
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Who, with tame cowardice familiar grown, would hear my thoughts, but fear to speak their own.
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Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
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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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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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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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He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
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