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
Reason
Denied
Surly
Come
English
Scots
Cry
Mend
Fortune
Fortunes
Pride
Cries
Clear
Wisely
Poor
Scotland
True
Charge
Strictest

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Man and wife, Coupled together for the sake of strife.
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Genius is of no country her pure ray Spreads all abroad, as general as the day.
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Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.
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Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
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Constant attention wears the active mind, Blots out our pow'rs, and leaves a blank behind.
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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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He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
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With that malignant envy which turns pale, And sickens, even if a friend prevail.
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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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Patience is sorrow's salve.
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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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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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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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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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Genius is of no country.
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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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Nature listening stood, whilst Shakespeare play'd And wonder'd at the work herself had made.
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He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.
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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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