| Author |
Quotes |
| Aaron Hill | Tender-handed stroke a nettle, And it stings you for your pains; Grasp it like a man of mettle, And it soft as silk remains. 'Tis the same with common natures, Use 'em kindly, they rebel; But, be rough as nutmeg-graters, And the rogues obey you well. |
| Aaron Hill | A man may cry, Church! Church! at ev'ry word, With no pore piety than other people-- A daw's not reckoned a religious bird Because it keeps a-cawing from a steeple. |
| Aaron Hill | A name, it has more than nominal worth, And belongs to good or bad luck at birth. |
| Aaron Hill | At night, to his own sharp fancies a prey, He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way, Tormenting himself with his prickles. |
| Aaron Hill | Behold him in conceited circles sail, Strutting and dancing and now planted stiff, In all his pomp of pageantry, as if He felt the eyes of Europe on his tail. |
| Aaron Hill | But, oh! the love that gold must crown! |
| Aaron Hill | For man may pious texts repeat, And yet religion have no inward seat. |
| Aaron Hill | He comes to the world, as a gentleman comes To a lodging ready furnished. |
| Aaron Hill | Hundreds of men were turned into beasts, Like the guests at Circe's horrible feasts, By the magic of ale and cider. |
| Aaron Hill | Just as the felon condemn'd to die-- With a very natural loathing-- Leaving the sheriff to dream of ropes, From his gloomy cell in a vision elopes, To caper on sunny greens and slopes, Instead of the dance upon nothing. |
| Aaron Hill | Look here, he cries (to give him words): Thou feathered clay, thou scum of birds! Look here, thou vile, predestined sinner, Doomed to be roasted for a dinner. |
| Aaron Hill | Mere verbiage,--it is not worth a carrot! Why Socrates or Plato--where's the odds?-- Once taught a jay to supplicate the Gods, And made a Polly-theist of a Parrot! |
| Aaron Hill | "Rogue that I am," he whispers to himself, "I lie, I cheat--do anything for pelf, But who on earth can say I am not pious?" |
| Aaron Hill | She was one of those who by fortune's boon Are born, as they say, with a silver spoon In her mouth, not a wooden ladle. |
| Aaron Hill | The doctors gave her over--to an ass. |
| Aaron Hill | The mind flies back with a grand recoil From debts not due till to-morrow. |
| Aaron Hill | The more the eggs, the worse the hatch, The more the fish, the worse the catch. |
| Aaron Hill | There's not a string attuned to mirth, But has its chord in melancholy. |
| Aaron Hill | To his tuned spirit the wild heather-bells Ring Sabbath knells; The sod's a cushion for his pious want, And, consecrated by the heaven within it, The sky-blue pool a font. |
| Aaron Hill | Who backs his rigid Sabbath, so to speak, Against the wicked remnant of the week." |
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