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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
Fools
Wit
Fool
Drink
Though
Nature
Made
Wits

More quotes by Charles Churchill

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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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Who, with tame cowardice familiar grown, would hear my thoughts, but fear to speak their 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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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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Constant attention wears the active mind, Blots out our pow'rs, and leaves a blank behind.
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To copy faults is want of sense.
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Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
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By different methods different men excel, but where is he who can do all things well?
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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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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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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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The oak, when living, monarch of the wood The English oak, which, dead, commands the flood.
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Patience is sorrow's salve.
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He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.
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Fool beckons fool, and dunce awakens dunce.
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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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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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Quick-circulating slanders mirth afford and reputation bleeds in every word.
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Wit, who never once Forgave a brother, shall forgive a dunce.
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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.
Charles Churchill