Let them (the wicked) see the beauty of virtue, and pine at having forsaken her.
Snuffling through his nose some stale joke.
Your knowing a thing is nothing, unless another knows you know it.
Each man has his fancy.
Let them recognize virtue and rot for having lost it.
That master of arts, that dispenser of genius, the Belly.
Each man has his own desires; all do not possess the same inclinations.
Live with yourself: get to know how poorly furnished you are.
That no one, no one at all, should try to search into himself! But the wallet of the person in front is carefully kept in view.
Fit to give weight to smoke.
Lives there the man with soul so dead as to disown the wish to merit the people's applause, and having uttered words worthy to be kept in cedar oil to latest times, to leave behind him rhymes that dread neither herrings nor frankincense.
The belly (i.e. necessity) is the teacher of art and the liberal bestower of wit.
For Yesterday was once To-morrow.
May everything he treads upon become a rose!
The belly is the teacher of art and the bestower of genius.
Go miser go, for money sell your soul. Trade wares for wares and trudge from pole to pole, So others may say when you are dead and gone. See what a vast estate he left his son.
None, none descends into himself, to find the secret imperfections of his mind.
The man who wishes to bend me with his tale of woe must shed true tears ? not tears that have been got ready overnight.
He attempts to use language which he does not know.
Nothing can be born of nothing, nothing can be resolved into nothing.
The Sixth Satire of Persius, translated by John Dryden. From: The Miscellaneous Works of John Dryden, Containing All His Original Poems, Tales and Translations, Volume 4 (1760), p. 407.
His bloated paunch stands forth projecting a good eighteen inches.
Now o'er his tomb and happy ashes will not violets spring?