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The rigid saint, by whom no mercy's shown To saints whose lives are better than his own.

Charles Churchill

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Charles Churchill
Died: 1764
Died: November 4
Poet
Writer
City of Westminster
Saints
Shown
Saint
Mercy
Whose
Religion
Lives
Better
Rigid

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Though by whim, envy, or resentment led, they damn those authors whom they never read.
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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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Nature listening stood, whilst Shakespeare play'd And wonder'd at the work herself had made.
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Genius is independent of situation.
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And reputation bleeds in ev'ry word.
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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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The best things carried to excess are wrong.
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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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Whom drink made wits, though nature made them fools.
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By different methods different men excel, but where is he who can do all things well?
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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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Genius is of no country.
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Wit, who never once Forgave a brother, shall forgive a dunce.
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It can't be Nature, for it is not sense.
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Weak is that throne, and in itself unsound, Which takes not solid virtue for its ground.
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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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With curious art the brain, too finely wrought, Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought.
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If you mean to profit, learn to praise.
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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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Who, with tame cowardice familiar grown, would hear my thoughts, but fear to speak their own.
Charles Churchill