Once sent out, a word takes wings beyond recall.
A poem is like a painting.
Pale Death beats equally at the poor man's gate and at the palaces of kings.
The bowl dispels corroding cares.
Drive Nature out with a pitchfork, yet she hurries back, And will burst through your foolish contempt, triumphant.
The cook cares not a bit for toil, toil, if the fowl be plump and fat