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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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And reputation bleeds in ev'ry word.
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Patience is sorrow's salve.
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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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With that malignant envy which turns pale, And sickens, even if a friend prevail.
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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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Weak is that throne, and in itself unsound, Which takes not solid virtue for its ground.
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Man and wife, Coupled together for the sake of strife.
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Whom drink made wits, though nature made them fools.
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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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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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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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Genius is independent of situation.
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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 best things carried to excess are wrong.
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He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.
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Nature listening stood, whilst Shakespeare play'd And wonder'd at the work herself had made.
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With curious art the brain, too finely wrought, Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought.
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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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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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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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