Thomas Fuller (preacher) (1608 – 1661)
English preacher, historian, and scholar.
There is a great difference between painting a face and not washing it.
She commandeth her husband, in any equal matter, by constant obeying him.
Music is nothing else but wild sounds civilised into time and tune.
A little skill in antiquity inclines a man to Popery; but depth in that study brings him about again to our religion.
Their heads sometimes so little that there is no room for wit; sometimes so long that there is no wit for so much room.
Do not in an instant what an age cannot recompense.
Scoff not at the natural defects of any which are not in their power to amend. Oh 't is cruelty to beat a cripple with his own crutches.
He will make a strange combustion in the state of his soul, who at the landing of every cockboat sets the beacons on fire.
He was one of a lean body and visage, as if his eager soul, biting for anger at the clog of his body, desired to fret a passage through it.
The Pyramids themselves, doting with age, have forgotten the names of their founders.
Deceive not thyself by overexpecting happiness in the married estate. Remember the nightingales which sing only some months in the spring, but commonly are silent when they have hatched their eggs.
But our captain counts the image of God—nevertheless his image—cut in ebony as if done in ivory, and in the blackest Moors he sees the representation of the King of Heaven.
To smell to a turf of fresh earth is wholesome for the body; no less are thoughts of mortality cordial to the soul.
Learning hath gained most by those books by which the printers have lost.
One that will not plead that cause wherein his tongue must be confuted by his conscience.
They that marry ancient people, merely in expectation to bury them, hang themselves in hope that one will come and cut the halter.
Light, God's eldest daughter, is a principal beauty in a building.
By the same proportion that a penny saved is a penny gained, the preserver of books is a Mate for the Compiler of them.
The lion is not so fierce as painted.
Miracles are the swaddling-clothes of infant churches.