I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him.

He hates our sacred nation, and he rails,

Even there where merchants most do congregate.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): The Merchant of Venice. Act i. Sc. 3.

And He that doth the ravens feed,

Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,

Be comfort to my age!

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): As You Like It. Act ii. Sc. 3.

The Lord my pasture shall prepare,

And feed me with a shepherd's care;

His presence shall my wants supply,

And guard me with a watchful eye.

Joseph Addison (1672-1719): Spectator. No. 444.

If it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): The Merchant of Venice. Act iii. Sc. 1.

What more felicitie can fall to creature

Than to enjoy delight with libertie,

And to be lord of all the workes of Nature,

To raine in th' aire from earth to highest skie,

To feed on flowres and weeds of glorious feature.

Edmund Spenser (1553-1599): Muiopotmos: or, The Fate of the Butterflie. Line 209.

Full little knowest thou that hast not tride,

What hell it is in suing long to bide:

To loose good dayes, that might be better spent;

To wast long nights in pensive discontent;

To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow;

To feed on hope, to pine with feare and sorrow.

  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

To fret thy soule with crosses and with cares;

To eate thy heart through comfortlesse dispaires;

To fawne, to crowche, to waite, to ride, to ronne,

To spend, to give, to want, to be undonne.

Unhappie wight, borne to desastrous end,

That doth his life in so long tendance spend!

Edmund Spenser (1553-1599): Mother Hubberds Tale. Line 895.

His helmet now shall make a hive for bees,

And lovers' songs be turned to holy psalms;

A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees,

And feed on prayers, which are old age's alms.

George Peele (1552-1598): Sonnet. Polyhymnia.