Quote

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.

Charles Churchill

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Charles Churchill
Died: 1764
Died: November 4
Poet
Writer
City of Westminster
Soul
Degree
Music
Requires
Borrows
Great
Degrees
Rouse
Blessing
Needful
Dying
Fires
Works
Aids
Fire
Variety
Nature
Wake

More quotes by Charles Churchill

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Man and wife, Coupled together for the sake of strife.
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Genius is of no country.
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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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Whom drink made wits, though nature made them fools.
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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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The oak, when living, monarch of the wood The English oak, which, dead, commands the flood.
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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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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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Be England what she will, With all her faults she is my country still.
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Genius is of no country her pure ray Spreads all abroad, as general as the day.
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Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.
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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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Patience is sorrow's salve.
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Fool beckons fool, and dunce awakens dunce.
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The best things carried to excess are wrong.
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England a fortune-telling host, As num'rous as the stars, could boast Matrons, who toss the cup, and see The grounds of Fate in grounds of tea.
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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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And reputation bleeds in ev'ry word.
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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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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.
Charles Churchill