O Ceremony, show me but thy worth? What is thy soul of adoration? Art thou aught else but place, degree, and form, Creating awe and fear in other men?
For nothing can seem foul to those that win.
I have heard it said There is an art which in their piedness shares With great creating nature.
Anger's my meat. I sup upon myself, And so shall starve with feeding.
My cake is dough, but I'll in among the rest, Out of hope of all but my share of the feast.
What say you to a piece of beef and mustard?
Fat paunches have lean pates, and dainty bits Make rich the ribs, but backrout quite the wits.
He that keeps not crust nor crum Weary of all, shall want some.
If you love an addle egg as well as you love an idle head, you would eat chickens i' th' shell.
I almost die for food, and let me have it!
Unquiet meals make ill digestions.
Yet writers say, as in the sweetest bud The eating canter dwells, so eating love Inhabits in the finest wits of all.