MondayFeb 09, 2026
Quotes: 53419 Authors: 9969
Life is like music; it must be composed by ear, feeling, and instinct, not by rule.
Friendship is like money, easier made than kept.
To himself everyone is immortal; he may know that he is going to die, but he can never know that he is dead.
I reckon being ill as one of the great pleasures of life, provided one is not too ill and is not obliged to work till one is better.
The best liar is he who makes the smallest amount of lying go the longest way.
The oldest books are still only just out to those who have not read them.
To do great work a man must be very idle As well as very industrious.
Though God cannot alter the past, historians can.
It has been said that the love of money is the root of all evil. The want of money is so quite as truly.
An honest God's the noblest work of man.
We think as we do, mainly because other people think so.
A definition encloses a wilderness of idea within a wall of words.
A friend who cannot at a pinch remember a thing or two that never happened is as bad as one who does not know how to forget.
God is Love, I dare say. But what a mischievous devil Love is.
Through perils both of wind and limb, Through thick and thin she followed him.
There's but a twinkling of a star Between a man of peace and war.
People care more about being thought to have good taste than about being thought either good, clever or amiable.
Learning, that cobweb of the brain, Profane, erroneous, and vain.
In law nothing is certain but expense.
If life must not be taken too seriously - then so neither must death.
For truth is precious and divine; Too rich a pearl for carnal swine.
Any fool can tell the truth, but it requires a man of some sense to know how to lie well.
Some people seem compelled by unkind fate to parental servitude for life. There is no form of penal servitude worse than this.
She that with poetry is won Is but a desk to write upon.
Oaths are but words, and words but wind.
For those that fly, may fight again, which he can never do that's slain.
And prove their doctrine orthodox by apostolic blows and knocks.
Authority intoxicates, And makes mere sots of magistrates; The fumes of it invade the brain, And make men giddy, proud, and vain.
Life is like music, it must be composed by ear, feeling and instinct, not by rule. Nevertheless one had better know the rules, for they sometimes guide in doubtful cases, though not often.
Neither have they hearts to stay, Nor wit enough to run away.
Nick Machiavel had neer a trick, Though he gave his name to our Old Nick.
But Hudibras gave him a twitch As quick as lightning in the breech, Just in the place where honour 's lodg'd, As wise philosophers have judg'd; Because a kick in that part more Hurts honour than deep wounds before.
He that complies against his will Is of his own opinion still.
Still amorous and fond and billing, Like Philip and Mary on a shilling.
Some have been beaten till they know What wood a cudgel 's of by th' blow; Some kick'd until they can feel whether A shoe be Spanish or neat's leather.
Doubtless the pleasure is as great Of being cheated as to cheat.
Cheer'd up himself with ends of verse And sayings of philosophers.
Ay me! what perils do environ The man that meddles with cold iron!
Compound for sins they are inclined to, By damning those they have no mind to.
Why should not conscience have vacation As well as other courts o' th' nation?
Have always been at daggers-drawing, And one another clapper-clawing.
To swallow gudgeons ere they 're catch'd, And count their chickens ere they 're hatch'd.
And bid the devil take the hin'most.
A Babylonish dialect Which learned pedants much affect.
And prove their doctrine orthodox, By apostolic blows and knocks.
What makes all doctrines plain and clear? About two hundred pounds a year. And that which was prov'd true before Prove false again? Two hundred more.
I am not now in fortune's power: He that is down can fall no lower.
Where entity and quiddity, The ghosts of defunct bodies, fly.
'Cause grace and virtue are within Prohibited degrees of kin; And therefore no true saint allows They shall be suffer'd to espouse.
Beside, 't is known he could speak Greek As naturally as pigs squeak; That Latin was no more difficile Than to a blackbird 't is to whistle.
If he that in the field is slain Be in the bed of honour lain, He that is beaten may be said To lie in honour's truckle-bed.
He had got a hurt O' the inside, of a deadlier sort.
The greatest saints and sinners have been made The proselytes of one anothers trade.
Quoth Hudibras, 'I smell a rat! Ralpho, thou dost prevaricate.'
As men of inward light are wont To turn their optics in upon 't.
The law can take a purse in open court, While it condemns a less delinquent fort.
Such as take lodgings in a head That 's to be let unfurnished.
He ne'er consider'd it, as loth To look a gift-horse in the mouth.
As the ancients Say wisely, have a care o' th' main chance, And look before you ere you leap; For as you sow, ye are like to reap.
All love at first, like generous wine, Ferments and frets until tis fine; But when tis settled on the lee, And from th impurer matter free, Becomes the richer still the older, And proves the pleasanter the colder.
And pulpit, drum ecclesiastick, Was beat with fist instead of a stick.
For money has a power above The stars and fate, to manage love.
Love in your hearts as idly burns As fire in antique Roman urns.
I 'll make the fur Fly 'bout the ears of the old cur.
Theres but the twinkling of a star Between a man of peace and war.
With crosses, relics, crucifixes, Beads, pictures, rosaries, and pixes, The tools of working out salvation By mere mechanic operation.
He could distinguish and divide A hair 'twixt south and southwest side.
The want of money is the root of all evil.
He made an instrument to know If the moon shine at full or no.
With mortal crisis doth portend My days to appropinque an end.
With books and money plac'd for show Like nest-eggs to make clients lay, And for his false opinion pay.
He that imposes an oath makes it, Not he that for convenience takes it; Then how can any man be said To break an oath he never made?
Opinion governs all mankind, Like the blind's leading of the blind .
Friend Ralph, thou hast Outrun the constable at last.
When pious frauds and holy shifts Are dispensations and gifts.
'T was Presbyterian true blue.
These reasons made his mouth to water.
As if religion was intended for nothing else but to be mended.
For rhetoric, he could not open his mouth, but out there flew a trope.
For all a rhetorician's rules teach nothing but to name his tools.
For rhyme the rudder is of verses, With which, like ships, they steer their courses.
Love is a boy by poets styl'd; Then spare the rod and spoil the child.
While the honour thou hast got Is spick and span new.
The sun had long since in the lap Of Thetis taken out his nap, And, like a lobster boil'd, the morn From black to red began to turn.
For those that fly may fight again, Which he can never do that 's slain.
For those that run away and fly, Take place at least o' the enemy.
Through perils both of wind and limb, Through thick and thin she follow'd him.
And wisely tell what hour o' the day The clock does strike, by algebra.
But still his tongue ran on, the less Of weight it bore, with greater ease.
With many a stiff thwack, many a bang, Hard crab-tree and old iron rang.
True as the dial to the sun, Although it be not shin'd upon.
The trenchant blade, Toledo trusty, For want of fighting was grown rusty, And ate into itself, for lack Of somebody to hew and hack.
For truth is precious and divine, Too rich a pearl for carnal swine.
Some force whole regions, in despite O' geography, to change their site; Make former times shake hands with latter, And that which was before come after. But those that write in rhyme still make The one verse for the other's sake; For one for sense, and one for rhyme, I think 's sufficient at one time.
Quoth she, 'I 've heard old cunning stagers Say fools for arguments use wagers.'
He knew what 's what, and that 's as high As metaphysic wit can fly.
For every why he had a wherefore.
Whatever sceptic could inquire for, For every why he had a wherefore.
Each window like a pill'ry appears, With heads thrust thro' nail'd by the ears.
Who thought he 'd won The field as certain as a gun.
For what is worth in anything But so much money as 't will bring?
And force them, though it was in spite Of Nature and their stars, to write.
And poets by their sufferings grow,-- As if there were no more to do, To make a poet excellent, But only want and discontent.
For he by geometric scale Could take the size of pots of ale.
Like feather bed betwixt a wall And heavy brunt of cannon ball.
No Indian prince has to his palace More followers than a thief to the gallows.
Nor do I know what is become Of him, more than the Pope of Rome.
Or shear swine, all cry and no wool.
We grant, although he had much wit, He was very shy of using it.
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