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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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Charles Churchill
Died: 1764
Died: November 4
Poet
Writer
City of Westminster
Takes
Unsound
Throne
Thrones
Solid
Ground
Weak
Virtue

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Nature listening stood, whilst Shakespeare play'd And wonder'd at the work herself had made.
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Be England what she will, With all her faults she is my country still.
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Whom drink made wits, though nature made them fools.
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With that malignant envy which turns pale, And sickens, even if a friend prevail.
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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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The rigid saint, by whom no mercy's shown To saints whose lives are better than his own.
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Even in a hero's heart Discretion is the better part.
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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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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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Genius is of no country her pure ray Spreads all abroad, as general as the day.
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Genius is independent of situation.
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It can't be Nature, for it is not sense.
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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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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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Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.
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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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Fool beckons fool, and dunce awakens 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.
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Though by whim, envy, or resentment led, they damn those authors whom they never read.
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The best things carried to excess are wrong.
Charles Churchill