Quotes
Quotes about Eating
Eating the bitter bread of banishment.
Who lined himself with hope,
Eating the air on promise of supply.
And ever against eating cares
Lap me in soft Lydian airs,
Married to immortal verse,
Such as the meeting soul may pierce,
In notes with many a winding bout
Of linked sweetness long drawn out.
Of no distemper, of no blast he died,
But fell like autumn fruit that mellow'd long,--
Even wonder'd at, because he dropp'd no sooner.
Fate seem'd to wind him up for fourscore years,
Yet freshly ran he on ten winters more;
Till like a clock worn out with eating time,
The wheels of weary life at last stood still.
Till their own dreams at length deceive 'em,
And oft repeating, they believe 'em.
[Tar water] is of a nature so mild and benign and proportioned to the human constitution, as to warm without heating, to cheer but not inebriate.
Religion blushing, veils her sacred fires,
And unawares Morality expires.
Nor public flame nor private dares to shine;
Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine!
Lo! thy dread empire Chaos is restor'd,
Light dies before thy uncreating word;
Thy hand, great Anarch, lets the curtain fall,
And universal darkness buries all.
Whoe'er amidst the sons
Of reason, valour, liberty, and virtue
Displays distinguish'd merit, is a noble
Of Nature's own creating.
The fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.
Far from mortal cares retreating,
Sordid hopes and vain desires,
Here, our willing footsteps meeting,
Every heart to heaven aspires.
He who first shortened the labor of Copyists by device of Movable Types was disbanding hired Armies and cashiering most Kings and Senates and creating a whole new Democratic world: he had invented the Art of printing.
Art is long, and time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still like muffled drums are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
The beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.
Nature, they say, doth dote,
And can not make a man
Save on some worn-out plan,
Repeating us by rote.
"Strike one" the Umpire said.
From the bleachers black with people there rose a sullen roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore,
"Kill him! Kill the Umpire!" shouted some one from the stand--
And it's likely they 'd have done it had not Casey raised his hand.
Appetite comes with eating, says Angeston.
My appetite comes to me while eating.
The proof of the pudding is the eating.
Meat-eating is, after all, a species of cannibalism: a pig or a rabbit can be, in life, a member of the family
Dreams are strange. A man can wake sweating in terror. What is that dark country of the mind through which we wander in sleep?
Eating and drinking should be nicely in equipoise.
It is enough to get on with the task of creating art without asking why one is doing it
Life's all telling lies nowadays. All cheating and being a stranger to the truth.
There is no art without cheating. That is why Plato and Tolstoy condemned literature
I was creating man afresh, planting him in a garden with clean white body and the innocent eyes of a deer. But he would not stay there: he must needs leap out to his plotting and blood-letting and sniggering nastiness
