Quote

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.

Charles Churchill

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Charles Churchill
Died: 1764
Died: November 4
Poet
Writer
City of Westminster
Plan
Creatures
Pleas
Plans
Grate
Poor
Paltry
Reason
Conceit
Thing
Creature
Men
Drawn
Vain

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Constant attention wears the active mind, Blots out our pow'rs, and leaves a blank behind.
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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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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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Genius is independent of situation.
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With that malignant envy which turns pale, And sickens, even if a friend prevail.
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By different methods different men excel, but where is he who can do all things well?
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He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.
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England a fortune-telling host, As num'rous as the stars, could boast Matrons, who toss the cup, and see The grounds of Fate in grounds of tea.
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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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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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The rigid saint, by whom no mercy's shown To saints whose lives are better than his own.
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Genius is of no country.
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Within the brain's most secret cells, A certain lord chief justice dwells, Of sov'reign power, whom one and all, With common voice we reason call.
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And reputation bleeds in ev'ry word.
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It can't be Nature, for it is not sense.
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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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The oak, when living, monarch of the wood The English oak, which, dead, commands the flood.
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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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Nature listening stood, whilst Shakespeare play'd And wonder'd at the work herself had made.
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