Charles Churchill Quotes

Who often, but without success, have prayed for apt Alliteration's artful aid.

No two on earth in all things can agree; All have some darling singularity; Women and men, as well as girls and boys, In gewgaws take delight, and sigh for toys, Your sceptres and your crowns, and such like things, Are but a better kind of toys for kings. In things indifferent reason bids us choose, Whether the whim's a monkey or a muse.

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.

Genius is of no country.

Nature listening stood, whilst Shakespeare play'd And wonder'd at the work herself had made.

When satire flies abroad on falsehood's wing, Short is her life, and impotent her sting; But when to truth allied, the wound she gives Sinks deep, and to remotest ages lives.

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.

Weak is that throne, and in itself unsound, Which takes not solid virtue for its ground.

A joke's a very serious thing.

No tribute is laid on castles in the air.

The rigid saint, by whom no mercy's shown To saints whose lives are better than his own.

With that malignant envy which turns pale, And sickens, even if a friend prevail.

Those who raise envy will easily incur censure.

What is this world?--A term which men have got, To signify not one in ten knows what; A term, which with no more precision passes To point out herds of men than herds of asses; In common use no more it means, we find, Than many fools in same opinions joined.

In the first seat, in robe of various dyes, A noble wildness flashing from his eyes, Sat Shakespeare: in one hand a wand he bore, For mighty wonders fam'd in days of yore: The other held a globe, which to his will Obedient turn'd, and own'd the master's skill: Things of the noblest kind his genius drew, And look'd through nature at a single view: A loose he gave to his unbounded soul, And taught new lands to rise, new seas to roll; Call'd into being scenes unknown before, And passing nature's bounds, was something more.

On the four aces doom'd to roll.

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.

Quick-circulating slanders mirth afford; and reputation bleeds in every word.

Even in a hero's heart Discretion is the better part.

He hurts me most who lavishly commends.

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?

Fashion--a word which knaves and fools may use, Their knavery and folly to excuse.

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.

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.

If you mean to profit, learn to praise.

The best things carried to excess are wrong.

Patience is sorrow's salve.

The danger chiefly lies in acting well; no crime's so great as daring to excel.

He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.

Knaves starve not in the land of fools.

What it 't to us, if taxes rise or fall, Thanks to our fortune, we pay none at all. Let muckworms who in dirty acres deal, Lament those hardships which we cannot feel, His grace who smarts, may bellow if he please, But must I bellow too, who sit at ease? By custom safe, the poets' numbers flow, Free as the light and air some years ago. No statesman e'er will find it worth his pains To tax our labours, and excise our brains. Burthens like these with earthly buildings bear, No tributes laid on castles in the air.

Keep up appearances; there lies the test. The world will give thee credit for the rest.

Fame is nothing but an empty name.

With curious art the brain, too finely wrought, Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought.

The proud will sooner lose than ask their way.

Most of those evils we poor mortals know From doctors and imagination flow.

There's a strange something, which without a brain Fools feel, and which e'en wise men can't explain, Planted in man, to bind him to that earth, In dearest ties, from whence he drew his birth.

By different methods different men excel, but where is he who can do all things well?

Childhood, who like an April morn appears, Sunshine and rain, hopes clouded o'er with fears.

Constant attention wears the active mind, Blots out our pow'rs, and leaves a blank behind.

Be England what she will, With all her faults she is my country still.

To copy beauty forfeits all pretense to fame; to copy faults is want of sense

Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends; He hurts me most who lavishly commends.

To copy faults is want of sense.

Though by whim, envy, or resentment led, they damn those authors whom they never read.

Men the most infamous are fond of fame, And those who fear not guilt yet start at shame.

Genius is independent of situation.

With various readings stored his empty skull, Learn'd without sense, and venerably dull.

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.

Though folly, robed in purple, shines, Though vice exhausts Peruvian mines, Yet shall they tremble and turn pale When satire wields her mighty flail.