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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.

Charles Churchill

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Charles Churchill
Died: 1764
Died: November 4
Poet
Writer
City of Westminster
Children
Greater
Evils
Life
Age
Breath
Evil
Breaths
Pain
Weak
Death
Afraid
Curst
Nature
Second
Railing
Firsts
Full
Sickly
First
Child
Pains

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Who, with tame cowardice familiar grown, would hear my thoughts, but fear to speak their 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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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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Amongst the sons of men how few are known Who dare be just to merit not their own.
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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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Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.
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Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
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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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Even in a hero's heart Discretion is the better part.
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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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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.
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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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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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He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.
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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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Man and wife, Coupled together for the sake of strife.
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Nature listening stood, whilst Shakespeare play'd And wonder'd at the work herself had made.
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Be England what she will, With all her faults she is my country still.
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He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
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Constant attention wears the active mind, Blots out our pow'rs, and leaves a blank behind.
Charles Churchill