| Slow as a plumber going for his tools.|
| Slow as cold molasses.|
| Slow as molasses in January.|
| Slow as the hand on clocks face.|
| Slow as the white cloud in the sky.|
| Slow, like water-lilies floating down a rill.|
|A voice as soft and slow|
As might proceed from angels tongue
If angels heart were sorrow-wrung,
And wishd to speak its woe.
| Slow as minor friars on sacred errands go.|
| Slow-swelling like Gods thunder underground.|
|Slow as at Oxford, on some gaudy day,|
Fat beadles, in magnificent array,
With big bellies bear the ponderous treat
And heavily lag on, with the vast loady meat.
| Slow as old Saturn through prodigious space.|
|Slow as an oak|
To woodmans stroke.
| Slow, like the tired heaving of a grief-worn breast.|
Oliver Wendell Holmes
| Slow, as the strokes of a pump.|
| Slow, like a bell.|
| Slow as a worm.|
| Exact and slow|
Like wooden monarchs at a puppet show.
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
Henry W. Longfellow
|It goes slow, comes slow, like a big mill-wheel|
On some broad stream, with long green weeds a-sway,
And soft and slow it rises and it falls,
Still going onward.
| Slow as lawyers mount to heaven.|
| Slow as the snail.|
| Hobbled slow as a broken-winded mare.|
Sir Walter Scott
| Seldome and slowe, like the scantye droppes of a fountaine neare a drye.|
| Slowlier than life into breath
Algernon Charles Swinburne