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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
Woods
English
Monarch
Dead
Monarchs
Living
Oaks
Commands
Wood
Flood
Command

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Constant attention wears the active mind, Blots out our pow'rs, and leaves a blank behind.
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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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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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And reputation bleeds in ev'ry word.
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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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Patience is sorrow's salve.
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Fool beckons fool, and dunce awakens 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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He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.
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Even in a hero's heart Discretion is the better part.
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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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If you mean to profit, learn to praise.
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With that malignant envy which turns pale, And sickens, even if a friend prevail.
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England a fortune-telling host, As num'rous as the stars, could boast Matrons, who toss the cup, and see The grounds of Fate in grounds of tea.
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The surest way to health, say what they will, Is never to suppose we shall be ill Most of the ills which we poor mortals know From doctors and imagination flow.
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Genius is of no country her pure ray Spreads all abroad, as general as the day.
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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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Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
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Genius is of no country.
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