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Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.

Charles Churchill

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Charles Churchill
Died: 1764
Died: November 4
Poet
Writer
City of Westminster
Ill
Cause
Causes

More quotes by Charles Churchill

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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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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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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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With that malignant envy which turns pale, And sickens, even if a friend prevail.
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Genius is of no country.
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Patience is sorrow's salve.
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Even in a hero's heart Discretion is the better part.
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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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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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He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.
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Nature, through all her works, in great degree, Borrows a blessing from variety. Music itself her needful aid requires To rouse the soul, and wake our dying fires.
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Man and wife, Coupled together for the sake of strife.
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The best things carried to excess are wrong.
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Be England what she will, With all her faults she is my country still.
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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 hurts me most who lavishly commends.
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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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Who, with tame cowardice familiar grown, would hear my thoughts, but fear to speak their own.
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Weak is that throne, and in itself unsound, Which takes not solid virtue for its ground.
Charles Churchill