Quotes by Samuel Butler

We grant, although he had much wit, He was very shy of using it.

Or shear swine, all cry and no wool.

Nor do I know what is become Of him, more than the Pope of Rome.

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

Like feather bed betwixt a wall And heavy brunt of cannon ball.

For he by geometric scale Could take the size of pots of ale.

And poets by their sufferings grow,-- As if there were no more to do, To make a poet excellent, But only want and discontent.

And force them, though it was in spite Of Nature and their stars, to write.

For what is worth in anything But so much money as 't will bring?

Who thought he 'd won The field as certain as a gun.