Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin new reap'd
Showed like a stubble-land at harvest-home;
He was perfumed like a milliner,
And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held
A pouncet-box, which ever and anon
He gave his nose and took 't away again.
No man's pie is freed
From his ambitious finger.
He has an oar in every man's boat, and a finger in every pie.
She has more goodness in her little finger than he has in his whole body.
While fancy, like the finger of a clock,
Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.
They are not a pipe for fortune's finger
To sound what stop she please. Give me that man
That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him
In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart,
As I do thee.—Something too much of this.
Spires whose "silent finger points to heaven."
An instinctive taste teaches men to build their churches in flat countries, with spire steeples, which, as they cannot be referred to any other object, point as with silent finger to the sky and star.
But, alas, to make me
A fixed figure for the time of scorn
To point his slow unmoving finger at!
The Moving Finger writes; and having writ,
Moves on; nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.