A Quote by Dwight D. Eisenhower
Sweet praise is like perfume. It is fine if you don't swallow it.
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The perfume of the flowers and of the bay tree are wafted on high, like incense. The birds sing sweet songs of praise to their Creator. In the tops of the trees, the soughing of the wind is like the hushed prayers of the multitude in some vast cathedral. Here the heart of man becomes impressionable.
Polls are like perfume-nice to smell, dangerous to swallow.
You definitely need to have red lipstick no matter what. You can have a great outfit, but it will always give you that extra little pop. I also love perfume. It doesn't even matter what the perfume is. I like to smell sweet.
This perfume was not like any perfume known before. It was not a scent that made things smell better... it was completely new, capable of creating a whole world, a magical, rich world, and in an instant you forgot all the loathsomeness around you and felt so rich, so at ease, so free, so fine.
An overdose of praise is like 10 lumps of sugar in coffee; only a very few people can swallow it.
Sweet is the breath of praise when given by those whose own high merit claims the praise they give.
Growing up I never had a perfume. I was like oh, one day when I'm grownup and have money I'm going to wear perfume. I had one perfume and I would save it for really, really, really special occasions. Which meant I never actually wore it. So now it's one of those things like, I can wear perfume everyday. I can afford to buy another one, I'm really lucky that I can. Now when I have nice stuff I don't save it anymore, I try to use it.
The body is like an elaborate metaphor. One may be able to taste and not swallow, like the anorexic, or to swallow and not integrate, like the bulimic or obese.
I don't always like to wear perfume - I really like body smells, that's the French in me - but there's something about putting perfume on before you go out that has intention.
I'm tired of praise; and love is very sweet, when it is simple and sincere like this.
People can be induced to swallow anything, provided it is sufficiently seasoned with praise.
There's the psychotic ambitious side of myself that wants a fashion line and my own network and be like a combination of Oprah and Gwen Stefani. And have a perfume. Definitely a perfume.
Sweet is the rose, but grows upon a brere;
Sweet is the juniper, but sharp his bough;
Sweet is the eglantine, but stiketh nere;
Sweet is the firbloome, but its braunches rough;
Sweet is the cypress, but its rynd is tough;
Sweet is the nut, but bitter is his pill;
Sweet is the broome-flowre, but yet sowre enough;
And sweet is moly, but his root is ill.
A violet in the youth of primy nature, Forward, not permanent--sweet, not lasting; The perfume and suppliance of a minute; No more.
In the spring of 1988, I returned to New Orleans, and as soon as I smelled the air, I knew I was home. It was rich, almost sweet, like the scent of jasmine and roses around our old courtyard. I walked the streets, savoring that long lost perfume.
Avoiding me, Quen downed a swallow of wine. "Trent is a fine young man," he said, watching the remaining wine swirl. "Yes... " I drawled, cautiously. "If you can call a drug lord and outlawed-medicine manufacturer a fine young man.
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