A Quote by Matthew Henry

He rolls it under his tongue as a sweet morsel. — © Matthew Henry
He rolls it under his tongue as a sweet morsel.
If ill thoughts at any time enter into the mind of a good man, he doth not roll them under his tongue as a sweet morsel.
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.
The tongue is the most remarkable. For we use it both to taste out sweet wine and bitter poison, thus also do we utter words both sweet and sout with the same tongue.
Hypocrisy is wretched because the hypocrite says with his tongue what is not in his heart. He wrongs his tongue and oppresses his heart. But if the heart is sound, the condition of the tongue follows suit. We are commanded to be upright in speech, which is a gauge of the heart's state.
I can loop my tongue into multiple rolls.
There is not a morsel of evidence backing up any of the claims or any of the narratives or any of the premises that make up today's news. There is not a morsel of evidence on anybody. There's not a morsel of evidence on Flynn! On Manafort! On Carter Page! There's no evidence on Trump! And yet the reporting goes on. Convicted of high crimes already without a trial. It's a great piece by Eli Lake.
It's very rare that you get material that rolls off your tongue.
'Morsel' is a perfect word. Forming those six letters on the lips and tongue prompts an instantaneous physiological reaction. The mouth waters. The lips purse.
I like 'Yabai!' That just rolls off the tongue. It means sick, wicked in Japanese.
If you really, truly believe in something, you're on fire, and your tongue rolls at the same pace.
Jake's mouth found mine, his lips molding hot and soft to my own. His tongue tentatively tested the seal of my lips; I parted them and he pushed inside. It was startlingly sweet and achingly familiar, like finding harbor.
I exist. It's sweet, so sweet, so slow. And light: you'd think it floated all by itself. It stirs. It brushes by me, melts and vanishes. Gently, gently. There is bubbling water in my mouth. I swallow. It slides down my throat, it caresses me — and now it comes up again into my mouth. For ever I shall have a little pool of whitish water in my mouth - lying low - grazing my tongue. And this pool is still me. And the tongue. And the throat is me.
Believe me, the man who earns his bread by the sweat of his brow, eats oftener a sweeter morsel, however coarse, than he who procures it by the labor of his brains.
The world's flattery and hypocrisy is a sweet morsel: eat less of it, for it is full of fire. Its fire is hidden while its taste is manifest, but its smoke becomes visible in the end.
He hath a heart as sound as a bell, and his tongue is the clapper; for what his heart thinks his tongue speaks.
We don't take Sweet'n Lows from restaurants anymore. I don't stuff dinner rolls into my pocketbook.
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