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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
Throne
Thrones
Solid
Ground
Weak
Virtue
Takes
Unsound

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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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Quick-circulating slanders mirth afford and reputation bleeds in every word.
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With curious art the brain, too finely wrought, Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought.
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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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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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Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.
Charles Churchill
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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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Genius is of no country.
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Genius is of no country her pure ray Spreads all abroad, as general as the day.
Charles Churchill
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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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With that malignant envy which turns pale, And sickens, even if a friend prevail.
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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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He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.
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To copy faults is want of sense.
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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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If you mean to profit, learn to praise.
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He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
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Wit, who never once Forgave a brother, shall forgive a dunce.
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Constant attention wears the active mind, Blots out our pow'rs, and leaves a blank behind.
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The best things carried to excess are wrong.
Charles Churchill