Charles Churchill Quotes
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Fame is nothing but an empty name.
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With that malignant envy which turns pale, And sickens, even if a friend prevail.
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The oak, when living, monarch of the wood; The English oak, which, dead, commands the flood.
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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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On the four aces doom'd to roll.
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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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Knaves starve not in the land of fools.
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Enough of satire; in less harden'd times Great was her force, and mighty were her rhymes. I've read of men, beyond man's daring brave, Who yet have trembled at the strokes she gave; Whose souls have felt more terrible alarms From her one line, than from a world in arms.
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Who shall dispute what the Reviewers say? Their word's sufficient; and to ask a reason, In such a state as theirs, is downright treason.
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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.
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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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To copy beauty forfeits all pretense to fame; to copy faults is want of sense
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Childhood, who like an April morn appears, Sunshine and rain, hopes clouded o'er with fears.
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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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With curious art the brain, too finely wrought, Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought.
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Who often, but without success, have prayed for apt Alliteration's artful aid.
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The stage I chose--a subject fair and free-- 'Tis yours--'tis mine--'tis public property. All common exhibitions open lie, For praise or censure, to the common eye. Hence are a thousand hackney writers fed; Hence monthly critics earn their daily bread. This is a general tax which all must pay, From those who scribble, down to those who play.
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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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Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.
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Man and wife, Coupled together for the sake of strife.
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By different methods different men excel, but where is he who can do all things well?
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The more haste, ever the worst speed.
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No tribute is laid on castles in the air.
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Nature listening stood, whilst Shakespeare play'd And wonder'd at the work herself had made.
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Fool beckons fool, and dunce awakens dunce.
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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.
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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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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.
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Fashion--a word which knaves and fools may use, Their knavery and folly to excuse.
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This a sacred rule we find Among the nicest of mankind, (Which never might exception brook From Hobbes even down to Bolingbroke,) To doubt of facts, however true, Unless they know the causes too.
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