Quote

Though folly, robed in purple, shines, Though vice exhausts Peruvian mines, Yet shall they tremble and turn pale When satire wields her mighty flail.

Charles Churchill

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Charles Churchill
Died: 1764
Died: November 4
Poet
Writer
City of Westminster
Turns
Vice
Wields
Folly
Exhausts
Vices
Tremble
Shining
Shines
Mines
Satire
Peruvian
Turn
Purple
Peruvians
Shall
Mighty
Flail
Though
Pale
Robed

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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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With curious art the brain, too finely wrought, Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought.
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Nature listening stood, whilst Shakespeare play'd And wonder'd at the work herself had made.
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The best things carried to excess are wrong.
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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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The rigid saint, by whom no mercy's shown To saints whose lives are better than his own.
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Patience is sorrow's salve.
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He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.
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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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Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends 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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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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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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Constant attention wears the active mind, Blots out our pow'rs, and leaves a blank behind.
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And reputation bleeds in ev'ry 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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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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No two on earth in all things can agree All have some darling singularity Women and men, as well as girls and boys, In gewgaws take delight, and sigh for toys, Your sceptres and your crowns, and such like things, Are but a better kind of toys for kings. In things indifferent reason bids us choose, Whether the whim's a monkey or a muse.
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Genius is independent of situation.
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