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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?

Charles Churchill

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Charles Churchill
Died: 1764
Died: November 4
Poet
Writer
City of Westminster
Pride
Cries
Clear
Wisely
Poor
Scotland
True
Charge
Strictest
Reason
Denied
Surly
Come
English
Scots
Cry
Mend
Fortune
Fortunes

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With that malignant envy which turns pale, And sickens, even if a friend prevail.
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Though by whim, envy, or resentment led, they damn those authors whom they never read.
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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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Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.
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It can't be Nature, for it is not sense.
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Who, with tame cowardice familiar grown, would hear my thoughts, but fear to speak their own.
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Whom drink made wits, though nature made them fools.
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Patience is sorrow's salve.
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Nature listening stood, whilst Shakespeare play'd And wonder'd at the work herself had made.
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Constant attention wears the active mind, Blots out our pow'rs, and leaves a blank behind.
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What is this world?--A term which men have got, To signify not one in ten knows what A term, which with no more precision passes To point out herds of men than herds of asses In common use no more it means, we find, Than many fools in same opinions joined.
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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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By different methods different men excel, but where is he who can do all things well?
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Genius is independent of situation.
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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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Who all in raptures their own works rehearse, And drawl out measur'd prose, which they call verse.
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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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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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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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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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