When the gods wish to punish us they answer our prayers.
I want my food dead. Not sick, not dying, dead.
Alas, I am dying beyond my means.
And now, I am dying beyond my means. (Said while sipping champagne on his deathbed.)
Few parents nowadays pay any regard to what their children say to them. The old fashioned respect for the young is fast dying out.
It's either the wallpaper or me. One of us has to go. [These were his dying words.]
For he who lives more lives than one more deaths than one must die.
The sick do not ask if the hand that smoothes their pillow is pure, nor the dying care if the lips that touch their brow have known the kiss of sin.
The old-fashioned respect for the young is fast dying out.
I like my food dry. Not sick, not even dying, dead.
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