A surfeit of the sweetest things The deepest loathing to the stomach brings. _Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act II., Sc. II._
Like a sickness, did I loath this food: But, as in health, come to my natural taste, Now do I wish it, love it, long for it. * * _Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act IV., Sc. I._
She gallops night by night. * * * * * * * O’er ladies lips, who straight on kisses dream; Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues, Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are. _Romeo and Juliet, Act I., Sc. IV._
Fat paunches have lean pates, and dainty bits Make rich the ribs, but bankrupt quite the wits. _Love’s Labour’s Lost, Act I., Sc. I._
Say, can you fast? Your stomachs are too young; And abstinence engenders maladies. _Love’s Labour’s Lost, Act IV., Sc. III._
Unquiet meals make ill digestions. _Comedy of Errors, Act V., Sc. I._
A sick man’s appetite, who desires most that Which would increase his evil. _Coriolanus, Act I., Sc. I._
Do not turn me about; my stomach is not constant. _Tempest, Act II., Sc. II._
For, ever and anon comes indigestion. _Byron—Don Juan, Canto XI., Verse III._
When a roast and a ragout, And fish and soup, by some side-dishes back’d, Can give us either pain or pleasure, who Would pique himself on intellects, whose use Depends so much upon the gastric juice? _Byron—Don Juan, Canto V., Verse XXXII._
He ate and he was well supplied; and she Who watch’d him like a mother, would have fed Him past all bounds, because she smiled to see, Such appetite in one she had deem’d dead: But Zoe, being older than Haidee, Knew (by tradition, for she ne’er had read), That famish’d people must be slowly nursed, And fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst. _Byron—Don Juan, Canto II., Verse CLVIII._
Why look you pale? Seasick, I think, coming from Muscovy. _Love’s Labour’s Lost, Act V., Sc. II._
The shepherd’s daughter * * * who began to be much seasick. _Winter’s Tale, Act V., Sc. II._
——the impatient wind blew half a gale: High dash’d the spray, the bows dipp’d in the sea, And seasick passengers turn’d somewhat pale. _Byron—Don Juan, Canto X., Verse LXIV._
Now we’ve reached her, lo! the captain, Gallant Kidd, commands the crew; Passengers their berths are clapt in, Some to grumble, some to spew. * * * * * “Help!”—“a couplet?”—“no, a cup Of warm water.” “What’s the matter?” “Zounds! my liver’s coming up; I shall not survive the racket Of this brutal Lisbon Packet.” _Byron—Poems._