BUTCHER
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Butchers! whose hands are dy'd with blood's foul stain,
And always foremost in the hangman's train.—JOHN GAY, Trivia
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Whoe'er has gone thro' London street,
Has seen a butcher gazing at his meat,
And how he keeps
Gloating upon a sheep's
Or bullock's personals, as if his own;
How he admires his halves
And quarters—and his calves,
As if in truth upon his own legs grown.—THOMAS HOOD, A Butcher
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Of brutal juices the whole man is full.—
In fact, fulfilling the metempsychosis,
The Butcher is already half a Bull.—THOMAS HOOD, A Butcher
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A sturdy man he look'd to fell an ox,
Bull-fronted, ruddy, with a formal streak
Of well-greas'd hair down either cheek.—THOMAS HOOD, Ode to Rae Wilson
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Where is that devil's butcher?—SHAKESPEARE, Henry VI
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Who finds the heifer dead and bleeding fresh
And sees fast by a butcher with an axe,
But will suspect 'twas he that made the slaughter?—SHAKESPEARE,Henry VI
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The butcher looked for his knife and it was in his mouth.—SWIFT, Polite Conversation
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The butcher in his killing clothes.—WALT WHITMAN, The Workingmen
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