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

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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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Though folly, robed in purple, shines, Though vice exhausts Peruvian mines, Yet shall they tremble and turn pale When satire wields her mighty flail.
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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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Be England what she will, With all her faults she is my country still.
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Genius is of no country.
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It can't be Nature, for it is not sense.
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Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.
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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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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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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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Genius is of no country her pure ray Spreads all abroad, as general as the day.
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He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
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Quick-circulating slanders mirth afford and reputation bleeds in every word.
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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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Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.
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Who, with tame cowardice familiar grown, would hear my thoughts, but fear to speak their own.
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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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With curious art the brain, too finely wrought, Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought.
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Patience is sorrow's salve.
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To copy faults is want of sense.
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