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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
Wood
Flood
Command
Woods
English
Monarch
Dead
Monarchs
Living
Oaks
Commands

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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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With that malignant envy which turns pale, And sickens, even if a friend prevail.
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He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.
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Genius is of no country her pure ray Spreads all abroad, as general as the day.
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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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Nature listening stood, whilst Shakespeare play'd And wonder'd at the work herself had made.
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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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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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And reputation bleeds in ev'ry word.
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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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Weak is that throne, and in itself unsound, Which takes not solid virtue for its ground.
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Quick-circulating slanders mirth afford and reputation bleeds in every word.
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Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.
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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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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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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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Constant attention wears the active mind, Blots out our pow'rs, and leaves a blank behind.
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Who, with tame cowardice familiar grown, would hear my thoughts, but fear to speak their own.
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Wit, who never once Forgave a brother, shall forgive a dunce.
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