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| Charles Churchill
A critic was of old a glorious name,
Whose sanction handed merit up to fame;
Beauties as well as faults he brought to view
His judgment great, and great his candor too.
No servile rules drew sickly taste aside;
Secure he walked, for nature was his guide.
But now, O strange reverse! our critics bawl
In praise of candor with a heart of gall,
Conscious of guilt, and fearful of the light;
They lurk enshrouded in the veil of night;
Safe from destruction, seize th' unwary prey,
And stab like bravoes, all who come that way.
A joke's a very serious thing. 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.
Amongst the sons of men how few are known
Who dare be just to merit not their own.
And if you mean to profit, learn to please.
And reputation bleeds in ev'ry word.
Appearances to save, his only care;
So things seem right, no matter what they are.
Apt alliteration 's artful aid. As by the way of innuendo
Lucus is made a non lucendo.
Awkward, embarrassed, stiff, without the skill
Of moving gracefully or standing still,
One leg, as if suspicious of his brother,
Desirous seems to run away from t'other.
Be England what she will,
With all her faults, she is my country still.
But though bare merit might in Rome appear
The strongest plea for favour, 'tis not here;
We form our judgment in another way;
And they will best succeed, who best can pay;
Those, who would gain the votes of British tribes,
Must add to force of merit, force of bribes.
But, spite of all the criticising elves,
Those who would make us feel, must feel themselves.
By different methods different men excel,
But where is he who can do all things well?Censure is often useful, praise often deceitful.
Childhood, who like an April morn appears,
Sunshine and rain, hopes clouded o'er with fears.
Constant attention wears the active mind,
Blots out our pow'rs, and leaves a blank behind.
Drawn by conceit from reason's plan
How vain is that poor creature man;
How pleas'd in ev'ry paltry elf
To grate about that thing himself.
England, a happy land we know,
Where follies naturally grow,
Where without culture they arise,
And tow'r above the common size.
Even in a hero's heart
Discretion is the better part.
Fashion--a word which knaves and fools may use,
Their knavery and folly to excuse.
Fool beckons fool, and dunce awakens dunce.
Friends I have made, whom Envy must commend,
But not one foe whom I would wish a friend.
Genius is independent of situation.Greatly his foes he dreads, but more his friends,
He hurts me most who lavishly commends.
He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone. He's of stature somewhat low--
Your hero always should be tall, you know.
His thirst he slakes at some pure neighboring brook,
Nor seeks for sauce where Appetite stands cook.
His voice no touch of harmony admits,
Irregularly deep, and shrill by fits.
The two extremes appear like man and wife
Coupled together for the sake of strife.
Like the dreams,
Children of night, of indigestion bred.
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.Man and wife,
Coupled together for the sake of strife.
Matrons, who toss the cup, and see
The grounds of fate in grounds of tea.
Men the most infamous are fond of fame,
And those who fear not guilt, yet start at shame.
Mutually giving and receiving aid,
They set each other off, like light and shade.
Ne'er blush'd, unless, in spreading vice's snares,
She blunder'd on some virtue unawares.
No statesman e'er will find it worth his pains
To tax our labours and excise our brains.
No tribute is laid on castles in the air.
Nor waste their sweetness in the desert air.
Not without art, but yet to Nature true.
On the four aces doom'd to roll.
Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.
Patience is sorrow's salve.
Prudent dullness marked him for a mayor. Spite of all the criticising elves, those who make us feel must feel themselves.
The best things carried to excess are wrong. The more haste, ever the worst speed.
The oak, when living, monarch of the wood;
The English oak, which, dead, commands the flood.
The rigid saint, by whom no mercy's shown
To saints whose lives are better than 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?
The surest road to health, say what they will,
Is never to suppose we shall be ill.
Most of those evils we poor mortals know
From doctors and imagination flow.
There webs were spread of more than common size,
And half-starved spiders prey'd on half-starved flies.
Those who raise envy will easily incur censure.
Those who would make us feel must feel themselves.
Though by whim, envy, or resentment led, they damn those authors whom they never read.Thy danger chiefly lies in acting well;
No crime's so great as daring to excel.
To copy beauties, forfeits all pretence
To fame--to copy faults, is want of sense.
To vanish nonsense with the charms of sound.
View the whole scene, with critic judgment scan,
And then deny him merit if you can.
Where he falls short, 'tis Nature's fault alone
Where he succeeds, the merit's all his own.
What's a fine person, or a beauteous face,
Unless deportment gives them decent grace?
Blessed with all other requisites to please,
Some want the striking elegance of ease;
The curious eye their awkward movement tires:
They seem like puppets let about by wires.
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.
-Who all in raptures their own works rehearse,
And drawl out measur'd prose, which they call verse.
Who often, but without success, have prayed for apt Alliteration's artful aid.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.
Who's in or out, who moves this grand machine,
Nor stirs my curiosity nor spleen:
Secrets of state no more I wish to know
Than secret movements of a puppet show:
Let but the puppets move, I've my desire,
Unseen the hand which guides the master wire.
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.
Whom drink made wits, though nature made them fools.
Why should we fear; and what? The laws?
They all are armed in virtue's cause;
And aiming at the self-same end,
Satire is always virtue's friend.
With curious art the brain, too finely wrought,
Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought.
With that malignant envy which turns pale,
And sickens, even if a friend prevail.
With various readings stored his empty skull,
Learn'd without sense, and venerably dull.
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