Charles Churchill (1731 – 1764)
English poet philosopher and satirist.
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There webs were spread of more than common size,
And half-starved spiders prey’d on half-starved flies.
Just to the windward of the law.
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.
Men the most infamous are fond of fame,
And those who fear not guilt yet start at shame.
But, spite of all the criticising elves,
Those who would make us feel—must feel themselves.
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.
Wherever waves can roll, and winds can blow.
He mouths a sentence as curs mouth a bone.
Amongst the sons of men how few are known
Who dare be just to merit not their own?
As the law does think fit
No butchers shall on juries sit.
No statesman e'er will find it worth his pains
To tax our labours and excise our brains.
Apt alliteration's artful aid.
Be England what she will,
With all her faults she is my country still.
With curious art the brain, too finely wrought,
Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought.
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.
A joke's a very serious thing.
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