« George Herbert: My grief hath need of all the watery things |
| Joan Didion: Who will look out for me now? »
The world's an inn;
and I her guest. I eat; I drink; I take my rest. My hostess, nature, does deny me nothing, wherewith she can supply me; where, having stayed a while, I pay her lavish bills, and go my way.
--Francis Quarles (1592-1644). One of his many descendants (he had 18 children) was the American poet, Langston Hughes.
Posted on 18 December 2011 at 18:40 in British, English and Scottish, Food and Drink, On One's Own Death | Permalink
You can follow this conversation by subscribing to the comment feed for this post.
This is only a preview. Your comment has not yet been posted.
The letters and numbers you entered did not match the image. Please try again.
As a final step before posting your comment, enter the letters and numbers you see in the image below. This prevents automated programs from posting comments.
Having trouble reading this image? View an alternate.
Comments are moderated, and will not appear until the author has approved them.
(URLs automatically linked.)
(Name is required. Email address will not be displayed with the comment.)
Name is required to post a comment
Please enter a valid email address