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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With curious art the brain, too finely wrought, Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought.
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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 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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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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He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.
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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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And reputation bleeds in ev'ry word.
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Even in a hero's heart Discretion is the better part.
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He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
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To copy faults is want of sense.
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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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Genius is of no country.
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Constant attention wears the active mind, Blots out our pow'rs, and leaves a blank behind.
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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.
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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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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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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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Who all in raptures their own works rehearse, And drawl out measur'd prose, which they call verse.
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Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.
Charles Churchill