I 'll make the fur Fly 'bout the ears of the old cur. - Samuel Butler

He cou'd foretel whats'ever was By consequence to come to pass; As death of great men, alterations, Diseases, battles, inundations. All this, without th' eclipse o' th' sun, Or dreadful comet, he hath done, By inward light; away as good, And easy to be understood; But with more lucky hit than those That use to make the stars depose, Like Knights o' th' post, and falsely charge Upon themselves what others forge: As if they were consenting to All mischiefs in the world men do: Or, like the Devil, did tempt and sway 'em To rogueries, and then betray 'em.

The trenchant blade, Toledo trusty,
For want of fighting was grown rusty,
And ate into itself, for lack
Of somebody to hew and hack.

For truth is precious and divine,—
Too rich a pearl for carnal swine.