I hate a man who swallows [his food], affecting not to know what he is eating. I suspect his taste in higher matters.

Oh, breathe not his name! let it sleep in the shade, Where cold and unhonour'd his relics are laid

Riddle of destiny, who can show What thy short visit meant, or know What thy errand here below?

The world meets nobody half way.

(The pig) hath a fair sepulchre in the grateful stomach of the judicious epicure - and for such a tomb might be content to die.

To be sick is to enjoy monarchical prerogatives.

To pile up honey upon sugar, and sugar upon honey, to an interminable tedious sweetness.