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Strana 39 - He hath disgraced me, and hindered me half a million; laughed at my losses, mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies; and what's his reason? I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions?
Strana 83 - They would not then, if they were trusted with fair and hopeful armies, suffer them for want of just and wise discipline to shed away from about them like sick feathers, though they be never so oft...
Strana 31 - Chapter coffee-house, which is frequented by those encouragers of literature, and (as they are styled by an eminent critic) 'not the worst judges of merit, the booksellers.' The conversation here naturally turns upon the newest publications; but their criticisms are somewhat singular. When they say a good book, they do not mean to praise the style or sentiment, but the quick and extensive sale of it.
Strana 76 - I believe that man is a beast; that the soul is the body, and that the body is the soul; and that after death there is neither body nor soul.
Strana 164 - Of all the days that's in the week I dearly love but one day — And that's the day that comes betwixt A Saturday and Monday...
Strana 113 - To spoyle the bloud of innocent. By forfeit of his bond. And as he was about to strike In him the deadly blow : ' Stay ' (quoth the judge) ' thy crueltie ; I charge thee to do so.
Strana 34 - Larem proprium vescor vernasque procaces pasco libatis dapibus. prout cuique libido est siccat inaequalis calices conviva, solutus legibus insanis, seu quis capit acria fortis pocula seu modicis uvescit laetius. ergo 70 sermo oritur, non de villis domibusve alienis, nee male necne Lepos saltet; sed quod magis ad nos pertinet et nescire malum est agitamus: utrumne divitiis homines an sint virtute beati; quidve ad amicitias, usus rectumne, trahat nos; 75 et quae sit natura boni summumque quid eius.
Strana 109 - I'll lay you a thousand crowns against a pound of your flesh that it is true.
Strana 110 - Nor ever yet did any good To them in streets that lie. His life was like a barrow hogge, That liveth many a day, Yet never once doth any good, Until men will him slay. Or like a filthy heap of dung, That lyeth in a whoard ; Which never can do any good, Till it be spread abroad. So fares it with the usurer, He cannot sleep in rest, For feare the thiefe will him pursue To plucke him from his nest.