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.— Charles Churchill
The most romantic Charles Churchill quotes that will transform you to a better person
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.
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.
Genius is independent of situation.
Those who raise envy will easily incur censure.
With that malignant envy which turns pale, And sickens, even if a friend prevail.
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.
He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.
Even in a hero's heart Discretion is the better part.
On the four aces doom'd to roll.
Quick-circulating slanders mirth afford; and reputation bleeds in every word.
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.
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?
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.
The best things carried to excess are wrong.
Though by whim, envy, or resentment led, they damn those authors whom they never read.
If you mean to profit, learn to praise.
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.
Knaves starve not in the land of fools.
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.
Constant attention wears the active mind, Blots out our pow'rs, and leaves a blank behind.
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.
Fool beckons fool, and dunce awakens dunce.
Though folly, robed in purple, shines, Though vice exhausts Peruvian mines, Yet shall they tremble and turn pale When satire wields her mighty flail.
Little do such men know the toil, the pains, the daily, nightly racking of the brains, to range the thoughts, the matter to digest, to cull fit phrases, and reject the rest.
Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends; He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
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.
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.
Be England what she will, With all her faults she is my country still.
A servile race Who, in mere want of fault, all merit place;
Who blind obedience pay to ancient schools, Bigots to Greece, and slaves to musty rules.
To copy beauty forfeits all pretense to fame; to copy faults is want of sense.
With various readings stored his empty skull, Learn'd without sense, and venerably dull.
Half-starved spiders prey'd on half-starved flies.
The more haste, ever the worst speed.
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.
Men the most infamous are fond of fame, And those who fear not guilt yet start at shame.
Fame is nothing but an empty name.
Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.
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.
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.
The villager, born humbly and bred hard, Content his wealth, and poverty his guard, In action simply just, in conscience clear, By guilt untainted, undisturb'd by fear, His means but scanty, and his wants but few, Labor his business, and his pleasure too, Enjoys more comforts in a single hour Than ages give the wretch condemn'd to power.
And reputation bleeds in ev'ry word.
Who often, but without success, have prayed for apt Alliteration's artful aid.