No. Now, shut up and eat your pears.
No. Now, shut up and eat your pears.
A scent that disturbs me and delights me. It smells like ripe pears, vetiver, a bit of violet and something else- something spicy almost biting and exotic.
Men, like peaches and pears, grow sweet a little while Before they begin to decay.
You should go to a pear tree for pears, not to an elm. - Maxims
All men should have a drop of treason in their veins, if nations are not to go soft like so many sleepy pears.
The poulterers' shops were still half open, and the fruiterers' were radiant in their glory. There were great, round, pot-bellied baskets of chestnuts, shaped like the waistcoats of jolly old gentlemen, lolling at the doors, and tumbling out into the street in their apoplectic opulence. There were ruddy, brown-faced, broad-girthed Spanish Onions, shining in the fatness of their growth like Spanish Friars, and winking from their shelves in wanton slyness at the girls as they went by, and glanced demurely at the hung-up mistletoe. There were pears and apples, clustered high in blooming pyramids there were bunches of grapes, made, in the shopkeepers' benevolence to dangle from conspicuous hooks, that people's mouths might water gratis as they passed there were piles of filberts, mossy and brown, recalling, in their fragrance, ancient walks among the woods, and pleasant shufflings ankle deep through withered leaves there were Norfolk Biffins, squab and swarthy, setting off the yellow of the oranges and lemons, and, in the great compactness of their juicy persons, urgently entreating and beseeching to be carried home in paper bags and eaten after dinner.
Your old virginity is like one of our French withered pears it looks ill, it eats dryly.
I was feeling well enough to eat the pears.
India is not Iran. You can't compare apple with pears.
You get so weak from eating pears that you fall down, and then they come and take you away on a stretcher.
These bursting yellow pears I hold, In burning hands so lately cold, My quiet autumn day confound I feel my fingers pressing round In quick delight old thoughts renew ... Ah, who's to say when summer's through.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories