Charles Churchill Quotes

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.

Patience is sorrow's salve.

Genius is of no country; her pure ray Spreads all abroad, as general as the day.

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

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.

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

If you mean to profit, learn to praise.

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.

To copy faults is want of sense.

Those who would make us feel must feel themselves.

Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.

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

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.

The laws I love; the lawyers I suspect.

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

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

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

Genius is independent of situation.

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

Man and wife, Coupled together for the sake of strife.

Whom drink made wits, though nature made them fools.

The proud will sooner lose than ask their way.

On the four aces doom'd to roll.

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

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

All hunt for fame, but most mistake the way.

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

Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.

No tribute is laid on castles in the air.

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

Genius is nothing more than inflamed enthusiasm.

A joke's a very serious thing.

The best things carried to excess are wrong.

Genius is of no country.

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

He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.

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

Who, with tame cowardice familiar grown, would hear my thoughts, but fear to speak their own.

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.

He hurts me most who lavishly commends.