A woman asked a coachman, "Are you full inside?" Upon which Lamb
put his head through the window and read more

A woman asked a coachman, "Are you full inside?" Upon which Lamb
put his head through the window and said, "I am quite full
inside; that last piece of pudding at Mr. Gillman's did the
business for me."

I sing the sweets I know, the charms I feel,
My morning incense. and my evening meal,
read more

I sing the sweets I know, the charms I feel,
My morning incense. and my evening meal,
The sweets of Hasty-Pudding.

A loaf of bread, the Walrus said,
Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
read more

A loaf of bread, the Walrus said,
Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed--
Now if you're ready, Oysters, dear,
We can begin to feed!

To abstain that we may enjoy is the epicurianism of reason.
[Fr., L'abstenir pur jouir, c'est l'epicurisme de la read more

To abstain that we may enjoy is the epicurianism of reason.
[Fr., L'abstenir pur jouir, c'est l'epicurisme de la raison.]

What, did you not know, then, that to-day Lucullus dines with
Lucullus?

What, did you not know, then, that to-day Lucullus dines with
Lucullus?

The genuine Amphitryon is the Amphitryon with whom we dine.
[Fr., Le veritable Amphitryon
Est l'Amphitryon ou read more

The genuine Amphitryon is the Amphitryon with whom we dine.
[Fr., Le veritable Amphitryon
Est l'Amphitryon ou l'on dine.]

The stomach carries the heart, and not the heart the stomach.
[Sp., Tripas llevan corazon, que no corazon tripas.]

The stomach carries the heart, and not the heart the stomach.
[Sp., Tripas llevan corazon, que no corazon tripas.]

(For many walk, of whom I have told you often, and now tell you
even weeping, that they are read more

(For many walk, of whom I have told you often, and now tell you
even weeping, that they are the enemies of the cross of Christ:
Whose end is destruction, whose God is their belly, and whose
glory is in their shame, who mind earthly things.)

'Tis not her coldness, father,
That chills my labouring breast;
It's that confounded cucumber
read more

'Tis not her coldness, father,
That chills my labouring breast;
It's that confounded cucumber
I've ate and can't digest.