Fame is a fickle food Upon a shifting plate, Whose table once a Guest, but not The second time, is set. Whose crumbs the crows inspect, And with ironic caw Flap past it to the Farmer’s corn; Men eat of it and die.

Hungry men have no respect for law, authority or human life.

Meat eaten without either mirth or music is ill of digestion.

No man can rationally live, worship, or love his neighbour on an empty stomach.

The sight of slabs of flesh should horrify and disgust any sensitive person if they exercised their inborn compassion. Habit has dimmed their native kindliness. Their palates have become abnormally corrupted and conditioned by a taste for dead food, its flavoring and odors. People who eat slaughtered creatures every day find it hard to imagine what to substitute for meat, not realizing that meat is the substitute for vegetables.

Taste is the enemy of a good death.

My flesh was not for feasting on

Eating meat is primitive, barbaric, and arrogant.

Ted likes his meat dead, enough said

I have no interest at all in food and drink, but only in slaughter and blood and the agonized groans of mangled men

A hungry stomach cannot hear.

The living have no place at the feasts of the dead.

Do not pursue the taste of good food.

Mine Enemy is growing old — I have at last Revenge — The Palate of the Hate departs — If any would avenge

Let him be quick — the Viand flits — It is a faded Meat — Anger as soon as fed is dead — 'Tis starving makes it fat