Quotes
Quotes about Wit
'Cause grace and virtue are within Prohibited degrees of kin; And therefore no true saint allows, They shall be suffer'd to espouse.
For talk six times with the same single lady, And you may get the wedding dress ready.
To sit, happy married lovers; Phillis trifling with a plover's Egg, while Corydon uncovers with a grace the Sally Lunn, Or dissects the luck pheasant--that, I think, were passing pleasant As I sit along at present, dreaming darkly of a dun.
Only the middle-aged have all their five senses in the keeping of their wits.
A man of maxims only, is like a cyclops with one eye, and that in the back of his head.
Oh! that we two were Maying Down the stream of the soft spring breeze; Like children with violets playing, In the shade of the whispering trees.
Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose. Hail, bounteous May, that doth inspire Mirth, and youth, and warm desire; Woods and groves are of thy dressing, Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing, Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long.
All furnished, all in arms; All plum'd like estridges that with the wind Bated like eagles having lately bathed; Glittering in golden coats like images; As full of spirit as the month of May And gorgeous as the sun at midsummer; Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls.
There's her cousin, an she were not possessed with a fury, exceeds her as much in beauty as the first of May doth the last of December.
When May, with cowslip-braided locks, Walks through the land in green attire. And burns in meadow-grass the phlox His torch of purple fire: . . . . And when the punctual May arrives, With cowslip-garland on her brow, We know what once she gave our lives, And cannot give us now!
May, queen of blossoms, And fulfilling flowers, With what pretty music Shall we charm the hours? Wilt thou have pipe and reed, Blown in the open mead? Or to the lute give heed In the green bowers.
Darkness within darkness. The gateway to all understanding.
If you seek, how is that different from pursuing sound and form? If you don't seek, how are you different from earth, wood, or stone? You must seek without seeking.
Its failings notwithstanding, there is much to be said in favor of journalism in that by giving us the opinion of the uneducated, it keeps us in touch with the ignorance of the community.
Learn'd he was in medic'nal lore, For by his side a pouch he wore, Replete with strange hermetic powder That wounds nine miles point-blank would solder.
This is the way that physicians mend or end us, Secundum artem: but although we sneer In health--when ill, we call them to attend us, Without the least propensity to jeer.
So liv'd our sires, ere doctors learn'd to kill, And multiplied with theirs the weekly bill.
"Is there no hope?" the sick man said, The silent doctor shook his head, And took his leave with signs of sorrow, Despairing of his fee to-morrow.
Oh, powerful bacillus, With wonder how you fill us, Every day! While medical detectives, With powerful objectives, Watch your play.
How the Doctor's brow should smile, Crown'd with wreaths of camomile.
But, when the wit began to wheeze, And wine had warm'd the politician, Cur'd yesterday of my disease, I died last night of my physician.
I bought an unction of a mountebank, So mortal that, but dip a knife in it, Where it draws blood so cataplasm so rare, Collected from all simples that have virtue Under the moon, can save the thing from death That is but scratched withal. I'll touch my point With this contagion, that, if I gall him slightly, It may be death.
(Macbeth:) How does your patient, doctor? (Doctor:) Not so sick, my lord, As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies That keep her from her rest. (Macbeth:) Cure her of that! Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, Pluck from the memory of a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the brain, And with some sweet oblivious antidote Cleanse the stuffed bosom of the perilous stuff Which weighs upon the heart? (Doctor:) Therein the patient Must minister to himself. (Macbeth:) Throw physic to the dogs, I'll none of it!
I do remember an apothecary, And hereabouts 'a dwells, which late I noted In tatt'red weeds, with overwhelming brows, Culling of simples. Meagre were his looks, Sharp misery had worn him to the bones; And in his needy shop a tortoise hung, An alligator stuffed, and other skins Of ill-shaped fishes; and about his shelves A beggarly account of empty boxes, Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds, Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses Were thinly scattered, to make up a show.
But nothing is more estimable than a physician who, having studied nature from his youth, knows the properties of the human body, the diseases which assail it, the remedies which will benefit it, exercises his art with caution, and pays equal attention to the rich and the poor. - Voltaire (Francois Marie Arouet Voltaire),
