Jonathan Swift

There are few, very few, that will own themselves in a mistake, though all the World sees them to be in downright nonsense.

What they do in heaven we are ignorant of; what they do not we are told expressly: that they neither marry, nor are given in marriage.

The Bulk of mankind is as well equipped for flying as thinking.

Difference in opinions has cost many millions of lives: for instance, whether flesh be bread, or bread be flesh; whether the juice of a certain berry be blood or wine.

Falsehood flies, and truth comes limping after it.

Promises and pie-crusts are made to be broken.

A tavern is a place where madness is sold by the bottle.

I cannot but conclude that the Bulk of your Natives, to be the most pernicious Race of little odious Vermin that Nature ever suffered to crawl upon the Surface of the Earth.

Fine words! I wonder where you stole them.

I have ever hated all nations, professions, and communities, and all my love is toward individuals: for instance, I hate the tribe of lawyers, but I love Counsellor Such-a-one, and Judge Such-a-one: so with physicians—I will not speak of my own trade—soldiers, English, Scotch, French, and the rest. But principally I hate and detest that animal called man, although I heartily love John, Peter, Thomas, and so forth. This is the system upon which I have governed myself many years, but do not tell...

That was excellently observed', say I, when I read a passage in an author, where his opinion agrees with mine. When we differ, there I pronounce him to be mistaken.

Conversation is but carving; Carve for all, yourself is starving: Give no more to every Guest, Than he's able to digest; Give him always of the Prime; And but little at a Time. Carve to all but just enough: Let them neither starve nor stuff: And, that you may have your Due, Let your Neighbours carve for you.

'Tis an old maxim in the schools, That flattery's the food of fools; Yet now and then your men of wit. Will condescend to take a bit.

She wears her clothes as if they were thrown on her with a pitchfork.

It is the folly of too many, to mistake the echo of a London coffee-house for the voice of the kingdom.

The stoical scheme of supplying our wants, by lopping off our desires, is like cutting off our feet when we want shoes.

When beasts could speak (the learned say They still can do so every day), It seems, they had religion then, As much as now we find in men.

Thus Dædalus and Ovid too, That man's a blockhead have confessed, Powel and Stretch the hint pursue; Life is the farce, the world a jest.

And that this boasted lord of nature Is both a weak and erring creature.

When dunces are satiric, I take it for a panegyric.