"It is supposed that there has been progress in the science of textual criticism, and the most frivolous pretender has learned to talk superciliously about "the old unscientific days". The old unscientific days are everlasting; they are here and now; they are renewed perennially by the ear which takes formulas in, and the tongue which gives them out again, and the mind which meanwhile is empty of reflexion and stuffed with self-complacency."

"Most men are rather stupid, and most of those who are not stupid are, consequently, rather vain."

"The difference between an icicle and a red-hot poker is really much slighter than the difference between truth and falsehood or sense and nonsense; yet it is much more immediately noticeable and much more universally noticed, because the body is more sensitive than the mind."

"A textual critic engaged upon his business is not at all like Newton investigating the motions of the planets: he is much more like a dog hunting for fleas. If a dog hunted for fleas on mathematical principles, basing his researches on statistics of area and population, he would never catch a flea except by accident."

"A man who possesses common sense and the use of reason must not expect to learn from treatises or lectures on textual criticism anything that he could not, with leisure and industry, find out for himself. What the lectures and treatises can do for him is to save him time and trouble by presenting to him immediately considerations which would in any case occur to him sooner or later."

"accuracy is a duty and not a virtue"

"Therefore, since the world has still Much good, but much less good than ill, And while the sun and moon endure Luck’s a chance, but trouble’s sure I’d face it as a wise man would, And train for ill and not for good."

"Oh many a peer of England brews Livelier liquor than the Muse, And malt does more than Milton can To justify God's ways to man. Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink For fellows whom it hurts to think."

"Now hollow fires burn out to black, And lights are guttering low: Square your shoulders, lift your pack, And leave your friends and go. Oh never fear, man, nought's to dread, Look not to left nor right: In all the endless road you tread There's nothing but the night."

"With rue my heart is laden For golden friends I had, For many a rose-lipt maiden And many a lightfoot lad. By brooks too broad for leaping The lightfoot boys are laid; The rose-lipt girls are sleeping In fields where roses fade."

"There, by the starlit fences, The wanderer halts and hears My soul that lingers sighing About the glimmering weirs."

"Far in a western brookland That bred me long ago The poplars stand and tremble By pools I used to know."

"Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle, Earth and high heaven are fixt of old and founded strong."

"Into my heart an air that kills From yon far country blows: What are those blue remembered hills, What spires, what farms are those? That is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain, The happy highways where I went And cannot come again."

"Oh tarnish late on Wenlock Edge, Gold that I never see; Lie long, high snowdrifts in the hedge That will not shower on me."

"From far, from eve and morning And yon twelve-winded sky, The stuff of life to knit me Blew hither; here am I."

"There, like the wind through woods in riot, Through him the gale of life blew high; The tree of man was never quiet: Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I."

"But from my grave across my brow Plays no wind of healing now, And fire and ice within me fight Beneath the suffocating night."

"They carry back bright to the coiner the mintage of man, The lads that will die in their glory and never be old."

"The bells they sound on Bredon And still the steeples hum. "Come all to church, good people," — Oh, noisy bells, be dumb; I hear you, I will come."

"And silence sounds no worse than cheers After earth has stopped the ears."

"To-day, the road all runners come, Shoulder-high, we bring you home, And set you at your threshold down, Townsman of a stiller town."

"Oh, when I was in love with you Then I was clean and brave, And miles around the wonder grew How well did I behave. And now the fancy passes by And nothing will remain, And miles around they'll say that I Am quite myself again."

"His folly has not fellow Beneath the blue of day That gives to man or woman His heart and soul away."

"I would be your wife most gladly! (Here she twirled her fingers madly,) But in England I've a mate! Yes! you've asked me far too late, For in England I've a mate."

"There he heard a Lady talking, To some milk-white Hens of Dorking,— 'Tis the lady Jingly Jones! On that little heap of stones Sits the Lady Jingly Jones!"

"On the Coast of Coromandel Where the early pumpkins blow, In the middle of the woods Lived the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò. Two old chairs, and half a candle,— One old jug without a handle,— These were all his worldly goods."

"They dined on mince, and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon; And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon, The moon, The moon, They danced by the light of the moon."

"Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."

"They sailed away for a year and a day To the land where the bong-tree grows."

"Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl! How charmingly sweet you sing! O let us be married! too long we have tarried: But what shall we do for a ring?""

"The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea In a beautiful pea green boat, They took some honey, and plenty of money, Wrapped up in a five pound note. The Owl looked up to the stars above, And sang to a small guitar, "O lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are, You are, You are! What a beautiful Pussy you are!""

"On a little heap of Barley Died my aged uncle Arly, And they buried him one night;— Close beside the leafy thicket;— There, his hat and Railway-Ticket;— There, his ever-faithful Cricket;— (But his shoes were far too tight.)"

"Ploffskin, Pluffskin, Pelican jee! We think no Birds so happy as we! Plumpskin, Ploshkin, Pelican jill! We think so then, and we thought so still!"

"It's a fact the whole world knows, That Pebbles are happier without their toes."

"The Pobble who has no toes Had once as many as we; When they said, "Some day you may lose them all;"— He replied, — "Fish fiddle de-dee!""

"When awful darkness and silence reign Over the great Gromboolian plain, Through the long, long wintry nights. When the angry breakers roar As they beat on the rocky shore;— When Storm-clouds brood on the towering heights Of the Hills of the Chankly Bore"

"On the top of the Crumpetty Tree The Quangle Wangle sat, But his face you could not see, On account of his Beaver Hat."

"Who, or why, or which, or what, Is the Akond of Swat?"

"Calico Jam, The little Fish swam, Over the syllabub sea, He took off his hat, To the Sole and the Sprat, And the Willeby-Wat,— But he never came back to me!"

"Calico Pie, The little Birds fly Down to the calico tree, Their wings were blue, And they sang "Tilly-loo!" Till away they flew,— And they never came back to me!"

"They went to sea in a sieve, they did; In a sieve they went to sea; In spite of all their friends could say."

"Far and few, far and few, Are the lands where the Jumblies live; Their heads are green, and their hands are blue, And they went to sea in a Sieve."

"His mind is concrete and fastidious, His nose is remarkably big; His visage is more or less hideous, His beard it resembles a wig."