Top 90 Quotes & Sayings by Charles Churchill

Genius is independent of situation.

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

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

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

Genius is of no country.

Those who would make us feel, must feel themselves.

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

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.

Prudent dullness marked him for a mayor.

A joke's a very serious thing.

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

Patience is sorrow's salve.

The best things carried to excess are wrong.

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

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

He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.

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

Knaves starve not in the land of fools.

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

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.

The more haste, ever the worst speed.

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.

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.

The laws I love; the lawyers I suspect.

Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.

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

Genius is nothing more than inflamed enthusiasm.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The proud will sooner lose than ask their way.

Fool beckons fool, and dunce awakens dunce.

On the four aces doom'd to roll.

Fame is nothing but an empty name.

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

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

Those who raise envy will easily incur censure.

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

Those who would make us feel must feel themselves.

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

To copy faults is want of sense.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

And reputation bleeds in ev'ry word.

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

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

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.

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

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.

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.