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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
Forgive
Forgiving
Brother
Shall
Dunce
Never
Forgave
Dunces
Wit

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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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The best things carried to excess are wrong.
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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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By different methods different men excel, but where is he who can do all things well?
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The oak, when living, monarch of the wood The English oak, which, dead, commands the flood.
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Nature listening stood, whilst Shakespeare play'd And wonder'd at the work herself had made.
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The surest way to health, say what they will, Is never to suppose we shall be ill Most of the ills which we poor mortals know From doctors and imagination flow.
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Genius is independent of situation.
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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?
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Though by whim, envy, or resentment led, they damn those authors whom they never read.
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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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He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
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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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Whom drink made wits, though nature made them fools.
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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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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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Who, with tame cowardice familiar grown, would hear my thoughts, but fear to speak their own.
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Patience is sorrow's salve.
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Fool beckons fool, and dunce awakens dunce.
Charles Churchill