Thy Food Is Such As

All That Glisters Is Not Gold; Often Have You Heard That Told: Many A Man His Life Hath Sold But My Outside To Behold: Gilded Tombs Do Worms Enfold.

Let The Sap Of Reason Quench The Fire Of Passion.

I Had Rather Be A Kitten And Cry Mew Than One Of These Same Metre Ballet-mongers.

Sweet Recreation Barred, What Doth Ensue But Moody And Dull Melancholy, Kinsman To Grim And Comfortless Despair.

Ay, But Hearken, Sir; Though The Chameleon Love Can Feed On The Air, I Am One That Am Nourished By My Victuals, And Would Fain Have Meat.