Samuel Butler (poet)

Samuel Butler (February 8 1612 – September 25 1680) was an English satirical poet.

For the 19th-century author of Erewhon, see Samuel Butler (novelist)

Quotes

There are more fools than knaves in the world, else the knaves would not have enough to live upon.
- The Genuine Remains in Verse and Prose of Mr. Samuel Butler (1759), edited by Robert Thyer

Authority intoxicates, And makes mere sots of magistrates;
The fumes of it invade the brain, And make men giddy, proud and vain;
By this the fool commands the wise, The noble with the base complies,
The sot assumes the rule of wit, and cowards make the base submit.
- From Miscellaneous Thoughts, lines 283-290 ; as contained in The Poetical Works of Samuel Butler: A Revised Edition with Memoir and Notes, Volume 2, Samuel Butler, G. Bell & Sons (1893), pp. 275-276

And poets by their sufferings grow;
As if there were no more to do,
To make a poet excellent,
But only want and discontent.
- "Miscellaneous Thoughts" in The Poems of Samuel Butler, Volume 2, Press of C. Whittingham, 1822, p. 269
- "Fragments", reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919)

They who study mathematiks only to fix their minds, and render them the steadyer to apply to all other things, as there are many who profess to do, are as wise as those who think by rowing boats, to learn to swim.
- Prose Observations (Oxford: 1979), p. 4

Hudibras

Hudibras on Wikisource.

Women, that left no stone unturn'd
In which the cause might be concern’d,
Brought in their children’s spoons and whistles,
To purchase swords, carbines, and pistols.
- In Johnson's Dictionary, vol. 2 (1755), s.v. "Stone"

Part I (1663–1664)

When civil fury first grew high,
And men fell out, they knew not why;
When hard words, jealousies, and fears,
Set folks together by the ears,
And made them fight, like mad or drunk,
For Dame Religion, as for punk; Whose honesty they all durst swear for,
Though not a man of them knew wherefore:
When Gospel-Trumpeter, surrounded
With long-ear'd rout, to battle sounded,
And pulpit, drum ecclesiastick,
Was beat with fist, instead of a stick;
Then did Sir Knight abandon dwelling,
And out he rode a colonelling.
- Canto I, first lines

We grant, although he had much wit,
He was very shy of using it.
- Canto I, line 45

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.
- Canto I, line 51

He was in LOGIC a great critic,
Profoundly skill'd in analytic;
He could distinguish, and divide
A hair 'twixt south, and south-west side:
On either which he would dispute,
Confute, change hands, and still confute,
He'd undertake to prove, by force
Of argument, a man's no horse;
He'd prove a buzzard is no fowl,
And that a lord may be an owl,
A calf an alderman, a goose a justice,
And rooks Committee-men and Trustees.
- Canto I, line 65

For rhetoric, he could not ope
His mouth, but out there flew a trope;
And when he happen'd to break off
I' th' middle of his speech, or cough,
H' had hard words,ready to show why,
And tell what rules he did it by;
Else, when with greatest art he spoke,
You'd think he talk'd like other folk,
For all a rhetorician's rules
Teach nothing but to name his tools.
- Canto I, line 81

A Babylonish dialect
Which learned pedants much affect.
- Canto I, line 93

For he could coin, or counterfeit
New words, with little or no wit;
Words so debas'd and hard, no stone
Was hard enough to touch them on;
And when with hasty noise he spoke 'em;
The ignorant for current took 'em;

A skilful leech is better far
Than half an hundred men of war,
So he appear'd; and by his skill,
No less than dint of sword, cou'd kill.

Shall we that in the Cov'nant swore,
Each man of us to run before
Another, still in Reformation,
Give dogs and bears a dispensation?
How will Dissenting Brethren relish it?
What will malignants say? videlicet,
That each man Swore to do his best,
To damn and perjure all the rest!
And bid the Devil take the hin'most,
Which at this race is like to win most.

They'll say our bus'ness, to reform
The Church and State, is but a worm;
For to subscribe, unsight, unseen,
To an unknown Church-discipline,
What is it else, but before-hand
T'engage, and after understand?
For when we swore to carry on
The present Reformation,
According to the purest mode
Of Churches best reformed abroad,
What did we else, but make a vow
To do we know not what, nor how?'

In mathematics he was greater
Than Tycho Brahe, or Erra Pater:
For he, by geometric scale,
Could take the size of pots of ale;
Resolve, by sines and tangents straight,
If bread and butter wanted weight;
And wisely tell what hour o' th' day
The clock doth strike, by algebra.
- Canto I, line 119

Whatever sceptic could inquire for,
For ev'ry why he had a wherefore;
Knew more than forty of them do,
As far as words and terms cou'd go.
All which he understood by rote
And, as occasion serv'd, would quote;
No matter whether right or wrong,
They might be either said or sung.
His notions fitted things so well,
That which was which he could not tell;
But oftentimes mistook th' one
For th' other, as great clerks have done.
- Canto I, line 131

Where entity and quiddity,
The ghosts of defunct bodies, fly.
- Canto I, line 145

He knew what 's what, and that 's as high
As metaphysic wit can fly.
- Canto I, line 149

And weave fine cobwebs, fit for skull
That's empty when the moon is full;
Such as take lodgings in a head
That's to be let unfurnished.
- Canto I, line 159

For his Religion, it was fit
To match his learning and his wit;
'Twas Presbyterian true blue;
For he was of that stubborn crew
Of errant saints, whom all men grant
To be the true Church Militant;
Such as do build their faith upon
The holy text of pike and gun;
Decide all controversies by
Infallible artillery;
And prove their doctrine orthodox
By apostolic blows and knocks;
Call fire and sword and desolation,
A godly thorough reformation,
Which always must be carried on,
And still be doing, never done;
As if religion were intended
For nothing else but to be mended.
A sect, whose chief devotion lies
In odd perverse antipathies;
In falling out with that or this,
And finding somewhat still amiss;
More peevish, cross, and splenetick,
Than dog distract, or monkey sick.
That with more care keep holy-day
The wrong, than others the right way;
Compound for sins they are inclin'd to,
By damning those they have no mind to:
Still so perverse and opposite,
As if they worshipp'd God for spite.
The self-same thing they will abhor
One way, and long another for.
Free-will they one way disavow,
Another, nothing else allow:
All piety consists therein
In them, in other men all sin...
- Canto I, line 189

The trenchant blade, Toledo trusty,
For want of fighting was grown rusty,
And ate into itself, for lack
Of somebody to hew and hack.
- Canto I, line 359

For Rhime the Rudder is of Verses,
With which like Ships they steer their courses.
- Canto I, line 463

He ne'er consider'd it, as loth
To look a gift-horse in the mouth.
- Canto I, line 490

And force them, though it was in spite
Of Nature and their stars, to write.
- Canto I, line 647

Quoth Hudibras, "I smell a rat!
Ralpho, thou dost prevaricate."
- Canto I, line 821

Or shear swine, all cry and no wool.
- Canto I, line 852

And bid the devil take the hin'most.
- Canto II, line 633

With many a stiff thwack, many a bang,
Hard crab-tree and old iron rang.
- Canto II, line 831

Like feather bed betwixt a wall
And heavy brunt of cannon ball.
- Canto II, line 872

Ay me! what perils do environ
The man that meddles with cold iron!
- Canto III, line 1

Who thought he 'd won
The field as certain as a gun.
- Canto III, line 11

Nor do I know what is become
Of him, more than the Pope of Rome.
- Canto III, line 263

I 'll make the fur
Fly 'bout the ears of the old cur.
- Canto III, line 277

He had got a hurt
O' the inside, of a deadlier sort.
- Canto III, line 309

These reasons made his mouth to water.
- Canto III, line 379

While the honour thou hast got
Is spick and span new.
- Canto III, line 398

With mortal crisis doth portend
My days to appropinque an end.
- Canto III, line 589

For those that run away and fly,
Take place at least o' the enemy.
- Canto III, line 609

I am not now in fortune's power:
He that is down can fall no lower.
- Canto III, line 877

Cheer'd up himself with ends of verse
And sayings of philosophers.
- Canto III, line 1011

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.
- Canto III, line 1047

When pious frauds and holy shifts
Are dispensations and gifts.
- Canto III, line 1145

Friend Ralph, thou hast
Outrun the constable at last.
- Canto III, line 1367

This Light inspires, and plays upon
The nose of Saint like Bag-pipe drone,
And speaks through hollow empty Soul,
As through a Trunk, or whisp'ring hole,
Such language as no mortal Ear
But spiritual Eve-droppers can hear.

He cou'd foretel whats'ever was
By consequence to come to pass;
As death of great men, alterations,
Diseases, battles, inundations.
All this, without th' eclipse o' th' sun,
Or dreadful comet, he hath done,
By inward light; away as good,
And easy to be understood;
But with more lucky hit than those
That use to make the stars depose,
Like Knights o' th' post, and falsely charge
Upon themselves what others forge:
As if they were consenting to
All mischiefs in the world men do:
Or, like the Devil, did tempt and sway 'em
To rogueries, and then betray 'em.

Part II (1664)

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.
- Canto I, line 23

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.
- Canto I, line 221

No Indian prince has to his palace
More followers than a thief to the gallows.
- Canto I, line 273

Quoth she, I 've heard old cunning stagers
Say fools for arguments use wagers.
- Canto I, line 297

Love in your hearts as idly burns
As fire in antique Roman urns.
- Canto I, line 309

For what is worth in anything
But so much money as 't will bring?
- Canto I, line 465

Love is a boy by poets styl'd;
Then spare the rod and spoil the child.
- Canto I, line 843

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.
- Canto II, line 29

Have always been at daggers-drawing,
And one another clapper-clawing.
- Canto II, line 79

For truth is precious and divine,—
Too rich a pearl for carnal swine.
- Canto II, line 257

Why should not conscience have vacation
As well as other courts o' th' nation?
- Canto II, line 317

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?
- Canto II, line 377.

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.
- Canto II, line 501

Doubtless the pleasure is as great
Of being cheated as to cheat.
- Canto III, line 1

He made an instrument to know
If the moon shine at full or no.
- Canto III, line 261

Each window like a pill'ry appears,
With heads thrust thro' nail'd by the ears.
- Canto III, line 391

To swallow gudgeons ere they 're catch'd,
And count their chickens ere they're hatch'd.
- Canto III, line 923

There 's but the twinkling of a star
Between a man of peace and war.
- Canto III, line 957

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.
- Canto III, line 1065

Part III (1678)

As men of inward light are wont
To turn their optics in upon 't.
- Canto I, line 481

Still amorous and fond and billing,
Like Philip and Mary on a shilling.
- Canto I, line 687

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.
- Canto I, line 1277

The hollow-hearted, disaffected,
And close malignant are detected ;
Who lay their lives and fortunes down,
For pledges to secure our own.

'Cause grace and virtue are within
Prohibited degrees of kin;
And therefore no true saint allows
They shall be suffer'd to espouse.
- Canto I, line 1293

Nick Machiavel had ne'er a trick,
Though he gave his name to our Old Nick.
- Canto I, line 1313

With crosses, relics, crucifixes,
Beads, pictures, rosaries, and pixes,—
The tools of working our salvation
By mere mechanic operation.
- Canto I, line 1495

True as the dial to the sun,
Although it be not shin'd upon.
- Canto II, line 175

But still his tongue ran on, the less
Of weight it bore, with greater ease.
- Canto II, line 443

We idly sit, like stupid blockheads,
Our hands committed to our pockets,
And nothing but our tongues at large,
To get the wretches a discharge:
Like men condemn'd to thunder-bolts,
Who, ere the blow, become mere dolts;
Or fools besotted with their crimes,
That know not how to shift betimes,
And neither have the hearts to stay,
Nor wit enough to run away.

For those that fly may fight again,
Which he can never do that's slain.
- Canto III, line 243

He that complies against his will.
Is of his own opinion still.
- Canto III, line 547. Sometimes misreported as "is convinced" instead of "complies"; reported in Paul F. Boller, Jr., and John George, They Never Said It: A Book of Fake Quotes, Misquotes, & Misleading Attributions (1989), p. 11

With books and money plac'd for show
Like nest-eggs to make clients lay,
And for his false opinion pay.
- Canto III, line 624

Quotes about Samuel Butler

He is of a middle stature, strong sett, high coloured, a head of sorrell haire, a severe and sound judgement: a good fellowe.
- John Aubrey, ‘Brief Lives,’ chiefly of Contemporaries, set down by John Aubrey, between the Years 1660 & 1696. Volume I, ed. Andrew Clark (1898), p. 136

This Sam. Butler, who was a boon and witty Companion, especially among the Company he knew well.
- Anthony Wood, Athenæ Oxonienses. An Exact History of all the Writers and Bishops Who have had their Education in the most Antient and Famous University of Oxford, from the Fifteenth Year of King Henry the Seventh, A.D. 1500, to the Author's Death in November 1695. Representating the Birth, Preferment, and Death of all those Authors and Prelates, the great Accidents of their Lives, and the Fate and Character of their Writings. To which are added, the Fasti, or Annals, of the said University, to the Year 1690. Volume the Second (1721), p. 453

Attributed

Forty Thousand Quotations (1917)

C. N. Douglas (ed.) Forty Thousand Quotations: Prose and Poetical (1917)

A man convinced against his will
Is of the same opinion still.

Ah me! what perils do environ
The man that meddles with cold iron!
What plaguy mischiefs and mishaps
Do dog him still with after-claps.

All our scourging of religion
Began with tumult and sedition;
When hurricanes of fierce commotion
Became strong motives to devotion,
As carnal seamen, in a storm,
Turn pious converts and reform.

And as the French we conquer’d once,
Now give us laws for pantaloons,
The length of breeches and the gathers,
Port-cannons, periwigs, and feathers.

And he that makes his soul his surety,
I think, does give the best security.

And though all cry down self, none means
His own self in a literal sense.

And when the fight becomes a chase,
Those win the day that win the race;
And that which would not pass in fights,
Has done the feat with easy flights.

As if Religion were intended
For nothing else but to be mended.

As the ancients wisely say
Have a care o’ th’ main chance,
And look before you ere you leap;
For as you sow y’are like to reap.

Authority intoxicates,
And makes mere sots of magistrates;
The fumes of it invade the brain,
And make men giddy, proud and vain;
By this the fool commands the wise;
The noble with the base complies;
The sot assumes the role of wit,
And cowards make the base submit.

Ay me! what perils do environ
The man that meddles with cold iron!

Bloody wars at first began,
The artificial plague of man,
That from his own invention rise,
To scourge his own iniquities.

But still his tongue ran on, the less
Of weight it bore, with greater ease;
And with its everlasting clack,
Set all men’s ears upon the rack.

Can by their pangs and aches find
All turns and changes of the wind.

’Cause grace and virtue are within
Prohibited degrees of kin;
And therefore no true saint allows
They should be suffered to espouse.

Critics are a kind of wild flies, that breed
In wild fig trees, and when they’re grown up feed
Upon the raw fruit of the nobler kind,
And by their nibbling on the outer rind,
Open the pores, and make way for the sun
To ripen it sooner than he would have done.

Cry out upon the stars for doing
Ill offices, to cross their wooing.

Do not your juries give their verdict
As if they felt the cause, not heard it.

Drudgery and knowledge are of a kin,
And both descended from one parent sin.

Fools are stubborn in their way,
As coins are harden’d by th’ allay;
And obstinacy’s ne’er so stiff
As when ’tis in a wrong belief.

For as two cheats, that play one game,
Are both defeated of their aim;
So those who play a game of state,
And only cavil in debate,
Altho’ there’s nothing lost nor won,
The public bus’ness is undone,
Which still the longer ’tis in doing,
Becomes the surer way to ruin.

For blocks are better cleft with wedges,
Than tools of sharp or subtle edges,
And dullest nonsense has been found
By some to be the most profound.

For brevity is very good,
Where we are or are not understood.

For daring nonsense seldom fails to hit,
Like scattered shot, and pass with some for wit.

For fools are stubborn in their way,
As coins are harden’d by th’ allay;
And obstinacy’s ne’er so stiff
As when ’tis in a wrong belief.

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’ th’ enemy.

For what is worth in anything,
But so much money as ’twill bring?

For zeal’s a dreadful termagant,
That teaches saints to tear and cant.

Full oft have letters caused the writers
To curse the day they were inditers.

Great wits and valours, like great states,
Do sometimes sink with their own weights.

H’ had got a hurt
O’ th’ inside of a deadlier sort.

He could raise scruples dark and nice,
And after solve ’em in a trice;
As if Divinity had catch’d
The itch, on purpose to be scratch’d.

He knew what’s what, and that’s as high
As metaphysic wit can fly.

He ne’er consider’d it as loath
To look a gift-horse in the mouth,
And very wisely would lay forth
No more upon it than ’twas worth.

He that complies against his will,
Is of his own opinion still,
Which he may adhere to, yet disown,
For reasons to himself best known.

He that has but impudence,
To all things has a fair pretence;
And put among his wants but shame,
To all the world may lay his claim.

He that imposes an oath makes it,
Not he that for Convenience takes it.

He that will win his dame must do
As love does when he draws his bow;
With one hand thrust the lady from,
And with the other pull her home.

He that would win his dame must do
As love does when he draws his bow;
With one hand thrust the lady from,
And with the other pull her home.

He was in logic a great critic,
Profoundly skill’d in analytic;
He could distinguish and divide
A hair ’twixt south and south-west side.

He’d undertake to prove, by force
Of argument, a man’s no horse.
He’d prove a buzzard is no fowl,
And that a lord may be an owl,
A calf an alderman, a goose a justice,
And rooks, committeemen or trustees.

Honour is like that glassy bubble,
That finds philosophers such trouble,
Whose least part crack’d, the whole does fly
And wits are crack’d to find out why.

In all the trade of war, no feat
Is nobler than a brave retreat.

In all the world there is no vice
Less prone t’ excess than avarice;
It neither cares for food nor clothing;
Nature’s content with little—that with nothing.

In the wicked there’s no vice,
Of which the saints have not a spice,
And yet that thing that’s pious in
The one, in the other is a sin.
Is it not ridiculous, and nonsense,
A saint should be a slave to conscience?

Laws do not put the least restraint
Upon our freedom, but maintain ’t;
Or, if it does, ’tis for our good,
To give us freer latitude;
For wholesome laws preserve us free,
By stinting of our liberty.

Man with raging drink inflam’d,
Is far more savage and untamed;
Supplies his loss of wit and sense
With barb’rousness and insolence;
Believes himself, the less he’s able
The more heroic and formidable.

More proselytes and converts use t’ accrue
To false persuasions than the right and true;
For error and mistake are infinite,
But truth has but one way to be i’ th’ right.

Night is the Sabbath of mankind,
To rest the body and the mind.

No Indian prince has to his palace
More followers than a thief to the gallows.

No man takes or keeps a vow,
But just as he sees others do;
Nor are they ’blig’d to be so brittle
As not to yield and bow a little:
For as best temper’d blades are found,
Before they break, to bend quite round;
So truest oaths are still more tough,
And tho’ they bow, are breaking proof.

Nothing’s more dull and negligent
Than an old lazy government,
That knows no interest of state,
But such as serves a present strait,
And, to patch up, or shift, will close
Or break alike with friends or foes;
That runs behindhand, and has spent
Its credit to the last extent;
And, the first time ’tis at a loss,
Has not one true friend, nor one cross.

Quoth he, That man is sure to lose,
That fouls his hands with dirty foes;
For where no honor’s to be gain’d,
’Tis thrown away in being maintain’d.

Saints themselves will sometimes be,
Of gifts that cost them nothing, free.

She that with poetry is won,
Is but a desk to write upon;
And what men say of her they mean
No more than on the thing they lean.

So Noah, when he anchor’d safe on
The mountain’s top, his lofty haven,
And all the passengers he bore
Were on the new world set ashore,
He made it next his chief design
To plant and propagate a vine,
Which since has overwhelmed and drown’d
Far greater numbers, on dry ground
Of wretched mankind, one by one,
Than all the flood before had done.

Some have mistaken blocks and posts,
For spectres, apparitions, ghosts,
With saucer-eyes and horns; and some
Have heard the devil beat a drum.

Success, the mark no mortal wit,
Or surest hand, can always hit;
For whatsoe’er we perpetrate,
We do but row—w’are steer’d by fate,
Which in success oft disinherits,
For spurious causes, noblest merits.

The feeblest vermin can destroy,
As sure as stoutest beasts of prey;
And only with their eyes and breath
Infect, and poison men to death.

The lives of trees lie only in the barks,
And in their styles the wit of greatest clerks.

The oyster-women lock’d their fish up,
And trudged away to cry, No Bishop.

The Queen of night, whose large command
Rules all the sea, and half the land,
And over moist and crazy brains,
In high spring-tides, at midnight reigns,
Was now declining to the west,
To go to bed, and take her rest.

The souls of women are so small,
That some believe they’ve none at all;
Or, if they have, like cripples, still
They’ve but one faculty, the will.

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.

The worst of rebels never arm
To do their king or country harm,
But draw their swords to do them good,
As doctors cure by letting blood.

There’s but the twinkling of a star
Between a man of peace and war;
A thief and justice, fool and knave,
A huffing off’cer and a slave;
A crafty lawyer and a pickpocket,
A great philosopher and a blockhead;
A formal preacher and a player,
A learn’d physician and man-slayer.

Those that go up hill, use to bow,
Their bodies forward, and stoop low
To poise themselves, and sometimes creep,
When th’ way is difficult and steep:
So those at court, that do address,
By low ignoble offices,
Can stoop at anything that’s base,
To wriggle into trust and grace,
Are like to rise to greatness sooner,
Than those that go by worth and honor.

Through perils both of wind and limb,
Through thick and thin she follow’d him.

’Tis in books the chief
Of all perfections to be plain and brief.

’Tis not now who’s stout and bold?
But who bears hunger best, and cold?
And he’s approv’d the most deserving,
Who longest can hold out at starving.

’Tis strange how some men’s tempers suit,
Like bawd and brandy, with dispute,
That for their own opinions stand fast,
Only to have them claw’d and canvass’d.

’Tis the temptation of the devil
That makes all human actions evil;
For saints may do the same things by
The spirit, in sincerity,
Which other men are tempted to,
And at the devil’s instance do:
And yet the actions be contrary,
Just as the saints and wicked vary.

To have the power to forgive,
Is empire and prerogative,
And ’tis in crowns a nobler gem,
To grant a pardon than condemn.

Too much or too little wit
Do only render th’ owner fit
For nothing, but to be undone
Much easier than if they’d none.

True as the dial to the sun,
Although it be not shin’d upon.

What makes a church a den of thieves?
A dean and chapter, and white sleeves.

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.

What makes the breaking of all oaths
A holy duty?—food and clothes.

When civil dudgeon first grew high,
And men fell out, they knew not why;
When hard words, jealousies, and fears
Set folk together by the ears,
And made them fight, like mad or drunk,
For dame Religion, as for punk.

Whipping, that’s virtue’s governess,
Tutoress of arts and sciences;
That mends the gross mistakes of nature,
And puts new life into dull matter;
That lays foundation for renown,
And all the honours of the gown.

Why should not conscience have vacation,
As well as other courts o’ th’ nation?
Have equal power to adjourn,
Appoint appearance, and return?

With crosses, relics, crucifixes,
Beads, pictures, rosaries, and pixes;
The tools of working out salvation
By mere mechanic operation.

And still be doing, never done.

And though all cry down self, none means his own self in a literal sense.

As you sow, y’ are like to reap.

Brevity is very good, when we are, or are not, understood.

But still his tongue ran on, the less of weight it bore, with greater ease.

For discords make the sweetest airs.

He that has two strings t’ his bow.

He that is down can fall no lower.

He who does not make his words rather serve to conceal than discover the sense of his heart deserves to have it pulled out like a traitor’s and shown publicly to the rabble.

I’ll make the fur fly ’bout the ears of the old cur.

It is unseasonable and unwholesome in all months that have not an R in their names to eat an oyster.

Look before you ere you leap.

Oaths are but words, and words but wind.

Prejudice may be considered as a continual false medium of viewing things, for prejudiced persons not only never speak well, but also never think well, of those whom they dislike, and the whole character and conduct is considered with an eye to that particular thing which offends them.

That conscience approves of and attests such a course of action, is itself alone an obligation.

There is a kind of physiognomy in the titles of books no less than in the faces of men, by which a skilful observer will as well know what to expect from the one as the other.

With vollies of eternal babble.

External links

Wikipedia

Wikipedia has an article about:

Samuel Butler (poet)

Hudibras at Project Gutenberg