Aaron Hill Quotes

Posted by Brian

A man may cry, Church! Church! at every word, With no pore piety than other people– A dawns not reckoned a religious bird Because it keeps a-cawing from a steeple.
– Aaron Hill

A name, it has more than nominal worth, And belongs to good or bad luck at birth.
– Aaron Hill

At night, to his own sharp fancies a prey, He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way, Tormenting himself with his prickles.
– Aaron Hill

Behold him in conceited circles sail, Strutting and dancing and now planted stiff, In all his pomp of pageantry, as if He felt the eyes of Europe on his tail.
– Aaron Hill

But, oh! the love that gold must crown!
– Aaron Hill

For man may pious texts repeat, And yet religion have no inward seat.
– Aaron Hill

He comes to the world, as a gentleman comes To a lodging ready furnished.
– Aaron Hill

Hundreds of men were turned into beasts, Like the guests at Circe’s horrible feasts, By the magic of ale and cider.
– Aaron Hill

Look here, he cries (to give him words): Thou feathered clay, thou scum of birds! Look here, thou vile, predestined sinner, Doomed to be roasted for a dinner.
– Aaron Hill

Letters, from absent friends, extinguish fear, Unite division, and draw distance near; Their magic force each silent wish conveys, And wafts embodied though, a thousand ways: Could souls to bodies write, death’s pow’r were mean, For minds could then meet minds with heaven between.
– Aaron Hill

Mere verbiage,–it is not worth a carrot! Why Socrates or Plato–where’s the odds?– Once taught a jay to supplicate the Gods, And made a Polly-theist of a Parrot!
– Aaron Hill

“Rogue that I am,” he whispers to himself, “I lie, I cheat–do anything for pelf, But who on earth can say I am not pious?”
– Aaron Hill

She was one of those who by fortune’s boon Are born, as they say, with a silver spoon In her mouth, not a wooden ladle.
– Aaron Hill

The mind flies back with a grand recoil From debts not due till to-morrow.
– Aaron Hill

To his tuned spirit the wild heather-bells Ring Sabbath knells; The sod’s a cushion for his pious want, And, consecrated by the heaven within it, The sky-blue pool a font.
– Aaron Hill

The man who pauses on the paths of treason, Halts on a quicksand, the first step engulfs him.
– Aaron Hill

The more the eggs, the worse the hatch, The more the fish, the worse the catch.
– Aaron Hill

Tender-handed stroke a nettle, And it stings you for your pains; Grasp it like a man of mettle, And it soft as silk remains. ‘Tis the same with common natures, Use ‘em kindly, they rebel; But, be rough as nutmeg-graters, And the rogues obey you well.
– Aaron Hill

Who backs his rigid Sabbath, so to speak, Against the wicked remnant of the week.”
– Aaron Hill


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