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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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Amongst the sons of men how few are known Who dare be just to merit not their own.
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He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
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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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Even in a hero's heart Discretion is the better part.
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With that malignant envy which turns pale, And sickens, even if a friend prevail.
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With curious art the brain, too finely wrought, Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought.
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Quick-circulating slanders mirth afford and reputation bleeds in every word.
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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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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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To copy faults is want of sense.
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Fool beckons fool, and dunce awakens dunce.
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Constant attention wears the active mind, Blots out our pow'rs, and leaves a blank behind.
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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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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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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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Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.
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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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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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Genius is independent of situation.
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