There's my baby!" I cried, quite carried away, "There's my poochiekins!". . . "Sadie," My dad said firmly, "Please do not refer to the devourer of souls as 'poochiekins'.
O time! swift devourer of all created things!
Time is the devourer of all things.
Time the devourer of everything.
It would be better if there were nothing. Since there is more pain than pleasure on earth, every satisfaction is only transitory, creating new desires and new distresses, and the agony of the devoured animal is always far greater than the pleasure of the devourer
Tempus edax rerum. Time the devourer of everything.
It is not possible to eat me without insisting that I sing praises of my devourer?