The Duke of Clarence . . . a prisoner in the Tower, was secretly put to death and drowned in a barrel of Malmesey wine
One should write not unskillfully in the running hand, be able to sing in a pleasing voice and keep good time to music; and, lastly, a man should not refuse a little wine when it is pressed upon him.
I am falser than vows made in wine.
Some of the most dreadful mischief that afflict mankind proceed from wine; it is the cause of disease, quarrels, sedition, idleness, aversion to labor, and every species of domestic disorder.
Fill every glass, for wine inspires us,And fires us With courage, love and joy. Women and wine should life employ. Is there ought to else on earth desirous?
And we meet, with champagne and a chicken, at last.
Claret is the liquor for boys; port for men; but he who aspires to be a hero must drink brandy.
Knowledge enormous makes a God of me. Names, deeds, gray legends, dire events, rebellions, Majesties, sovran voices, agonies, Creations and destroyings, all at once Pour into the wide hollows of my brain, And deify me, as if some blithe wine Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk, And so become immortal.
Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, matched with mine, Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine.
It was not the wine, murmured Mr. Snodgrass, in a broken voice. It was the salmon.
Let first the onion flourish there, Rose among roots, the maiden-fair, Wine-scented and poetic soul Of the capacious salad bowl.
I am only a beer teetotaler, not a champagne teetotaler. I do not like beer.
I struck the board, and cried, No more: I will abroad. What? shall I ever sigh and pine? My lines and life are free; free as the road, Loose as the wind, as large as store. Shall I be still in suit? Have I no harvest but a thorn To let me blood, and not restore What I have lost with cordial fruit? Sure there was wine Before my sighs did dry it; there was corn Before my tears did drown it; Is the year only lost to me? Have I no bays to crown it?
Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine; And I was desolate and sick of an old passion, Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head: I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I cried for madder music and for stronger wine, But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire, Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine
How simple and frugal a thing is happiness: a glass of wine, a roast chestnut, a wretched little brazier, the sound of the sea. . . . All that is required to feel that here and now is happiness is a simple, frugal heart.
What is man, when you come to think upon him, but a minutely set, ingenious machine for turning with infinite artfulness, the red wine of Shiraz into urine?
It is a naive domestic Burgundy without any breeding, but I think you will be amused by its presumption.
Con pan y vino se anda el camino With bread and wine you can walk your road.
Quickly, bring me a beaker of wine, so that I may wet my mind and say something clever.
It is better for pearls to pass through the lips of swine than good wine to pass through the lips of the indifferent.
I can certainly see you know your wine. Most of the guests who stay here would not know the difference between Bordeaux and Claret.
All these weddings, all these years, all that blasted salmon and Champagne and here I am on my own wedding day, and I am... eh... em... eh... still thinking.
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