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Quackery: Quotations from Cyclopedia of Practical Quotations

From powerful causes spring the empiric's gains, Man's love of life, his weakness, and his pains; These first induce him the vile trash to try, Then lend his name, that other men may buy.— CRABBE — Borough. Letter VII. L. 124.

Void of all honor, avaricious, rash, The daring tribe compound their boasted trash- Tincture of syrup, lotion, drop, or pill; All tempt the sick to trust the lying bill.— CRABBE — Borough. Letter VII. L. 75.

Unrespited, unpitied, unrepriev'd.— MILTON — Paradise Lost. Bk. II. L. 185.

Ay-down to the dust with them, slaves as they are, From this hour, let the blood in their dastardly veins, That shrunk at the first touch of Liberty's war, Be wasted for tyrants, or stagnant in chains.— MOORE — Lines on the Entry of the

Austrians into Naples, 1821. Just prophet, let the damn'd one dwell Full in the sight of Paradise, Beholding heaven and feeling hell.— MOORE — Lalla Rookh. Fire Worshippers. L. 1,028.

And still adore the hand that gives the blow.— JOHN POMFRET — To a Friend Under Affliction. L. 40.

Heaven is not always angry when he strikes, But most chastises those whom most he likes.— JOHN POMFRET — To a Friend Under Affliction. L. 89.

But if the first Eve Hard doom did receive When only one apple had she, What a punishment new Must be found out for you, Who eating hath robb'd the whole tree.— POPE — To Lady Montague.

Some of us will smart for it.— Shakespeare — Much Ado About Nothing. Act V. Sc. 1. L. 109.

Thou shalt be whipp'd with wire, and stew'd in brine, Smarting in ling'ring pickle.— Shakespeare — Antony and Cleopatra. Act II. Sc. 5. L. 65.

There is nothynge that more dyspleaseth God Than from theyr children to spare the rod.— SKELTON — Magnyfycence. L. 1,954.

Out, you impostors! Quack salving, cheating mountebanks! your skill Is to make sound men sick, and sick men kill. S.— MASSINGER — Virgin-Martyr. Act IV. Sc. 1.

I bought an unction of a mountebank, So mortal that, but dip a knife in it, Where it draws blood no cataplasm so rare, Collected from all simples that have virtue Under the moon, can save the thing from death That is but scratch'd withal.— Shakespeare — Hamlet. Act IV. Sc. 7. L. 142.