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Give not that which is holy unto the dogs, neither cast ye your pearls before swine, lest they trample them under their feet, and turn again and rend you.

Shear swine, all cry and no wool.

You have a wrong sow by the ear.

You may see me, fat and shining, with well-cared for hide, . . . a hog from Epicurus' herd.

The fattest hog in Epicurus' sty.

Then on the grounde Togyder rounde With manye a sadde stroke, They roll and rumble, They turne and tumble, As pigges do in a poke.

How instinct varies in the grov'lling swine, Compar'd, half-reasoning elephant, with thine! 'Twixt that and reason what a nice barrier! Forever sep'rate, yet forever near!

The hog that ploughs not, not obeys thy call, Lives on the labours of this lord of all.