The Pen Is The Tongue

I Had Rather Munch A Crust Of Brown Bread And An Onion In A Corner, Without Any More Ado Or Ceremony, Than Feed Upon Turkey At Another Man?s Table, Where One Is Fain To Sit Mincing And Chewing His Meat An Hour Together, Drink Little, Be Always Wiping His Fingers And His Chops, And Never Dare To Cough Nor Sneeze, Though He Has Never So Much A Mind To It, Nor Do A Many Things Which A Body May Do Freely By One?s Self.

Everything Disturbs An Absent Lover.

The Road To The Inn Is Much Better Than The Stay.

Wine In Excess Keeps Neither Secrets Nor Promises.

"he Preaches Well That Lives Well," Quoth Sancho, "that's All The Divinity I Can Understand."