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Whom drink made wits, though nature made them fools.

Charles Churchill

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Charles Churchill
Died: 1764
Died: November 4
Poet
Writer
City of Westminster
Fool
Drink
Though
Nature
Made
Wits
Fools
Wit

More quotes by Charles Churchill

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He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.
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With curious art the brain, too finely wrought, Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought.
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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 rigid saint, by whom no mercy's shown To saints whose lives are better than his own.
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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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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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The best things carried to excess are wrong.
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By different methods different men excel, but where is he who can do all things well?
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Though by whim, envy, or resentment led, they damn those authors whom they never read.
Charles Churchill
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If you mean to profit, learn to praise.
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Who, with tame cowardice familiar grown, would hear my thoughts, but fear to speak their own.
Charles Churchill
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Weak is that throne, and in itself unsound, Which takes not solid virtue for its ground.
Charles Churchill
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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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Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.
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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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Patience is sorrow's salve.
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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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Gipsies, who every ill can cure, Except the ill of being poor Who charms 'gainst love and agues sell, Who can in hen-roost set a spell, Prepar'd by arts, to them best known To catch all feet except their own, Who, as to fortune, can unlock it, As easily as pick a pocket.
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Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
Charles Churchill
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Wit, who never once Forgave a brother, shall forgive a dunce.
Charles Churchill