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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
Life
Age
Breath
Evil
Breaths
Pain
Weak
Death
Afraid
Curst
Nature
Second
Railing
Firsts
Full
Sickly
First
Child
Pains
Children
Greater
Evils

More quotes by Charles Churchill

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Though by whim, envy, or resentment led, they damn those authors whom they never read.
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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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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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To copy faults is want of sense.
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Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.
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Constant attention wears the active mind, Blots out our pow'rs, and leaves a blank behind.
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With that malignant envy which turns pale, And sickens, even if a friend prevail.
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Wit, who never once Forgave a brother, shall forgive a dunce.
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Genius is of no country her pure ray Spreads all abroad, as general as the day.
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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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Weak is that throne, and in itself unsound, Which takes not solid virtue for its ground.
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With curious art the brain, too finely wrought, Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought.
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Genius is of no country.
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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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Be England what she will, With all her faults she is my country still.
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It can't be Nature, for it is not sense.
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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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Nature listening stood, whilst Shakespeare play'd And wonder'd at the work herself had made.
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The rigid saint, by whom no mercy's shown To saints whose lives are better than his own.
Charles Churchill
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Whom drink made wits, though nature made them fools.
Charles Churchill