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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.

Charles Churchill

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

More quotes by Charles Churchill

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Old Age, a second child, by nature curst With more and greater evils than the first, Weak, sickly, full of pains: in ev'ry breath Railing at life, and yet afraid of death.
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With curious art the brain, too finely wrought, Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought.
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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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He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
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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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Though by whim, envy, or resentment led, they damn those authors whom they never read.
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If you mean to profit, learn to praise.
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Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.
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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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Fool beckons fool, and dunce awakens dunce.
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It can't be Nature, for it is not sense.
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Patience is sorrow's salve.
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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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The oak, when living, monarch of the wood The English oak, which, dead, commands the flood.
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Weak is that throne, and in itself unsound, Which takes not solid virtue for its ground.
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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, with tame cowardice familiar grown, would hear my thoughts, but fear to speak their own.
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Whom drink made wits, though nature made them fools.
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The best things carried to excess are wrong.
Charles Churchill