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The tucked-up sempstress walks with hasty strides, While streams run down her oil'd umbrella's sides.

Jonathan Swift

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Jonathan Swift
Age: 77 †
Born: 1667
Born: November 30
Died: 1745
Died: October 19
Essayist
Human Rights Activist
Novelist
Opinion Journalist
Pamphleteer
Philosopher
Poet
Priest
Prosaist
Public Figure
Dublin city
Isaac Bickerstaff
M. B. Drapier
Lemuel Gulliver
Simon Wagstaff
Sides
Strides
Running
Tucked
Hasty
Umbrella
Stride
Streams
Oil
Walks

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She 's no chicken she 's on the wrong side of thirty, if she be a day.
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When a true genius appears, you can know him by this sign: that all the dunces are in a confederacy against him.
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My father had a small Estate in Nottinghamshire I was the Third of five Sons.
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How often do we contradict the right rules of reason in the whole course of our lives! Reason itself is true and just, but the reason of every particular man is weak and wavering, perpetually swayed and turned by his interests, his passions, and his vices.
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An atheist has got one point beyond the devil.
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Daphne knows, with equal ease, How to vex and how to please But the folly of her sex Makes her sole delight to vex.
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Reason is a very light rider, and easily shook off.
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A chuck under the chin is worth two kisses.
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There's none so blind as they that won't see.
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May you live all the days of your life.
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Last week I saw a woman flayed, and you will hardly believe, how much it altered her person for the worse.
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I won't quarrel with my bread and butter.
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Under this window in stormy weather I marry this man and woman together Let none but Him who rules the thunder Put this man and woman asunder.
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For poetry, he's past his prime, He takes an hour to find a rhyme His fire is out, his wit decayed, His fancy sunk, his muse a jade. I'd have him throw away his pen, But there's no talking to some men.
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Politics, as the word is commonly understood, are nothing but corruptions.
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Everybody wants to live forever, but nobody wants to grow old.
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Few are qualified to shine in company, but it is in most men's power to be agreeable.
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In all I wish, how happy should I be, Thou grand Deluder, were it not for thee? So weak thou art that fools thy power despise And yet so strong, thou triumph'st o'er the wise.
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I'll give you leave to call me anything, if you don't call me spade.
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Books, like men their authors, have no more than one wayofcoming intothe world, but there areten thousand to go out of it, and return no more.
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