Charles Churchill

It can't be Nature, for it is not sense.

'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

Wherever waves can roll, and winds can blow.

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

A joke's a very serious thing.

Within the brain's most secret cells A certain Lord Chief Justice dwells, Of sovereign power, whom, one and all, With common voice, we Reason call.

Drawn by Conceit from Reason's plan, How vain is that poor creature, Man! How pleased is every paltry elf To prate about that thing, himself.

Why should we fear? and what? The laws? They all are arm'd in Virtue's cause; And aiming at the self-same end, Satire is always Virtue's friend.

Just to the windward of the law.

And adepts in the speaking trade Keep a cough by them ready made.

Knaves starve not in the land of fools.

England, a happy land we know, Where follies naturally grow.

With curious art the brain, too finely wrought, Preys on herself, and is destroy'd by thought: Constant attention wears the active mind, Blots out our powers, and leaves a blank behind.

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.

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

Amongst the sons of men how few are known Who dare be just to merit not their own?

There webs were spread of more than common size, And half-starved spiders prey’d on half-starved flies.

Apt alliteration's artful aid.

Grave without thought, and without feeling, gay.

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

No tribute's laid on castles in the air.

No statesman e'er will find it worth his pains To tax our labours and excise our brains.

When foes insult, and prudent friends dispense, In pity's strains, the worst of insolence, Oft with thee, Lloyd, I steal an hour from grief, And in thy social converse find relief.

Where he falls short, 'tis Nature's fault alone; Where he succeeds, the merit's all his own.