Poor in abundance, famish'd at a feast.
No one is able to enjoy such feast than the one who throws a party in his own mind.
Bear in mind that you should conduct yourself in life as at a feast.
Home is where the heart is and hence a movable feast.
I feast on wine and bread, and feasts they are.
But whate'er you are That in this desert inaccessible, Under the shade of melancholy boughs, Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time; If you have ever looked on better days, If ever been where bells knoll'd to church, If ever sat at any good man's feast, If ever from your eyelids wiped a tear, And know what 'tis to pity and be pitied, Let gentleness my strong enforcement be. . . .
Here was a torture that Greek inventors of the Feast and the Stone had omitted from their Hades: the Blanket of Self-Deception. A lovely warm blanket as far as it covered the soul in torment, but it never quite covered everything.
Oh, you crows! Feast away! What a spread! Soup straight from the eye sockets! And thick red sake! But don't have too much Or you'll surely get drunk.
Faith is the ticket to the feast, not the feast.
Life should serve up its feast of experience in a series of courses.
Keep the Feast of the Resurrection. Be a Peter or a John; hasten to the Sepulchre, running together, running against one another, vying in the noble race (cf. Jn. 20:3-4). And even if you be beaten in speed, win the victory of zeal; not looking into the tomb, but going in.
Moderation is a fatal thing. Enough is as bad as a meal. More than enough is as good as a feast.
Drink is the feast of reason and the flow of soul.
Better fare hard with good men than feast it with bad.
Fasting is not just a physical discipline; it can be a spiritual feast.
Wine talks; ask anyone. The oracle at the street corner; the uninvited guest at the wedding feast; the holy fool. It ventriloquizes. It has a million voices. It unleashes the tongue, teasing out secrets you never meant to tell, secrets you never even knew. It shouts, rants, whispers. It speaks of great plans, tragic loves, and terrible betrayals. It screams with laughter. It chuckles softly to itself. It weeps in front of its own reflection. It revives summers long past and memories best forgotten. Every bottle a whiff of other times, other places, everyone. . . a humble miracle
Percy frowned "You have a feast for tuna?
Feast or famine. My plate is suddenly full.
The reason why I hate working in theatre is the tedium of memorisation. But once that is done, then you feast on this never-ending meal. If you play it correctly, every night is fraught with very high stakes that are very difficult to find in everyday life.
Yes I’m a beast and I feast when I conquer!
