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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
Creatures
Pleas
Plans
Grate
Poor
Paltry
Reason
Conceit
Thing
Creature

More quotes by Charles Churchill

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He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.
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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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Whom drink made wits, though nature made them fools.
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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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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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Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.
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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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With curious art the brain, too finely wrought, Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought.
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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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Even in a hero's heart Discretion is the better part.
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With that malignant envy which turns pale, And sickens, even if a friend prevail.
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Tis mighty easy o'er a glass of wine On vain refinements vainly to refine, To laugh at poverty in plenty's reign, To boast of apathy when out of pain, And in each sentence, worthy of the schools, Varnish'd with sophistry, to deal out rules Most fit for practice, but for one poor fault That into practice they can ne'er be brought.
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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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Who all in raptures their own works rehearse, And drawl out measur'd prose, which they call verse.
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If you mean to profit, learn to praise.
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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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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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Wit, who never once Forgave a brother, shall forgive a dunce.
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Quick-circulating slanders mirth afford and reputation bleeds in every word.
Charles Churchill