Jonathan Swift

For poetry, he's past his prime,_x000D_ _x000D_ He takes an hour to find a rhyme;_x000D_ _x000D_ His fire is out, his wit decayed,_x000D_ _x000D_ His fancy sunk, his muse a jade._x000D_ _x000D_ I'd have him throw away his pen,_x000D_ _x000D_ But there's no talking to some men.

In all I wish, how happy should I be,_x000D_ _x000D_ Thou grand Deluder, were it not for thee?_x000D_ _x000D_ So weak thou art that fools thy power despise;_x000D_ _x000D_ And yet so strong, thou triumph'st o'er the wise.

Bachelor's fare: bread and cheese, and kisses.

Coffee makes us severe, and grave and philosophical.

You should never be ashamed to admit you have been wrong. It only proves you are wiser today than yesterday

Satire is a sort of glass wherein beholders do generally discover everybody’s face but their own; which is the chief reason for that kind reception it meets with in the world, and that so very few are offended with it.

It is useless to attempt to reason a man out of a thing he was never reasoned into.

If a man makes me keep my distance, the comfort is, he keeps his at the same time.

We of this age have discovered a shorter, and more prudent method to become scholars and wits, without the fatigue of reading or of thinking.