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A cobbler, . . . produced several new grins of his own invention, having been used to cut faces for many years together over his last.

To one commending an orator for his skill in amplifying petty matters, Agesilaus said: "I do not think that shoemaker a good workman that makes a great shoe for a little foot."

Him that makes shoes go barefoot himself.

Ye tuneful cobblers! still your notes prolong, Compose at once a slipper and a song; So shall the fair your handiwork peruse, Your sonnets sure shall please--perhaps your shoes.

I can tell where my own shoe pinches me.

The shoemaker makes a good shoe because he makes nothing else.

If you had taken off the shoe then, at length you would feel in what part it pinched you.

Let firm, well hammer'd soles protect thy feet Through freezing snows, and rains, and soaking sleet; Should the big last extend the shoe too wide, Each stone will wrench the unwary step aside; The sudden turn may stretch the swelling vein, The cracking joint unhinge, or ankle sprain; And when too short the modish shoes are worn, You'll judge the seasons by your shooting corn.

I was not made of common calf, Nor ever meant for country loon; If with an axe I seem cut out, The workman was no cobbling clown; A good jack boot with double sole he made, To roam the woods, or through the rivers wade.

Marry because you have drank with the king, And the king hath so graciously pledged you, You shall no more be called shoemakers. But you and yours to the world's end Shall be called the trade of the gentle craft.

As he cobbled and hammered from morning till dark, With the footgear to mend on his knees, Stitching patches, or pegging on soles as he sang, Out of tune, ancient catches and glees.

One said he wondered that leather was not dearer than any other thing. Being demanded a reason: because, saith he, it is more stood upon than any other thing in the world. - William Hazlitt,

The title of Ultracrepidarian critics has been given to those persons who find fault with small and insignificant details.

The wearer knowes, where the shoe wrings.

A careless shoe string, in whose tie I see a wilde civility.

Cinderella's lefts and rights To Geraldine's were frights, And I trow The damsel, deftly shod, Has dutifully trod Until now.

Oh, where did hunter win So delicate a skin For her feet? You lucky little kid, You perished, so you did, For my sweet.

The fairy stitching gleams On the sides and in the seams, And it shows That Pixies were the wags Who tipped these funny tags And these toes.

Remember, cobbler, to keep to your leather.

When we see a man with bad shoes, we say it is no wonder, if he is a shoemaker.