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Wit, who never once Forgave a brother, shall forgive a dunce.

Charles Churchill

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Charles Churchill
Died: 1764
Died: November 4
Poet
Writer
City of Westminster
Forgave
Dunces
Wit
Forgive
Forgiving
Brother
Shall
Never
Dunce

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Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.
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With curious art the brain, too finely wrought, Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought.
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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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It can't be Nature, for it is not sense.
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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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Though by whim, envy, or resentment led, they damn those authors whom they never read.
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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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Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.
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Whom drink made wits, though nature made them fools.
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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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With that malignant envy which turns pale, And sickens, even if a friend prevail.
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Even in a hero's heart Discretion is the better part.
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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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Fool beckons fool, and dunce awakens dunce.
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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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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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Constant attention wears the active mind, Blots out our pow'rs, and leaves a blank behind.
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And reputation bleeds in ev'ry word.
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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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