Quote

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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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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Quick-circulating slanders mirth afford and reputation bleeds in every word.
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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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Genius is of no country.
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To copy faults is want of sense.
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Genius is of no country her pure ray Spreads all abroad, as general as the day.
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He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.
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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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With that malignant envy which turns pale, And sickens, even if a friend prevail.
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Constant attention wears the active mind, Blots out our pow'rs, and leaves a blank behind.
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Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.
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Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.
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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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Be England what she will, With all her faults she is my country still.
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Even in a hero's heart Discretion is the better part.
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The oak, when living, monarch of the wood The English oak, which, dead, commands the flood.
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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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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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Fool beckons fool, and dunce awakens dunce.
Charles Churchill