What is a modern poet's fate?/ To write his thoughts upon a slate;/ The critic spits on what is done,/ Gives it a wipe" - and all is gone.

The wine is poured, you should drink it. [Fr., Le vin est verse, il faut le boire.]

It is the customary fate of new truths to begin as heresies and to end as superstitions

Whether it's destiny or fate or whatever, I don't think I could do a French Laundry anywhere else.

For my part getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.

Some dreams we have are nothing else but dreams, Unnatural and full of contradictions; Yet others of our most romantic schemes Are something more than fictions.