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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.

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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He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.
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Patience is sorrow's salve.
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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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If you mean to profit, learn to praise.
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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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Who all in raptures their own works rehearse, And drawl out measur'd prose, which they call verse.
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And reputation bleeds in ev'ry word.
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Man and wife, Coupled together for the sake of strife.
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Whom drink made wits, though nature made them fools.
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Genius is independent of situation.
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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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Nature listening stood, whilst Shakespeare play'd And wonder'd at the work herself had made.
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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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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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The oak, when living, monarch of the wood The English oak, which, dead, commands the flood.
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Be England what she will, With all her faults she is my country still.
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Who, with tame cowardice familiar grown, would hear my thoughts, but fear to speak 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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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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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.
Charles Churchill