C.N. Douglas, comp. Forty Thousand Quotations: Prose and Poetical. 1917.


In all pleasure there is satiety.


Passion raves herself to rest, or flies.


All surfeit is the father of much fast.


Satiety is a neighbor to continued pleasures.


With pleasure dragged he almost longed for woe.


To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof little more than a little is by much too much.


With much we surfeit; plenty makes us poor.


The wholesomest meats that are will breed satiety.

Sir John Harrington.

The same stale viands, served up over and over, the stomach nauseates.

R. Wynne.

I hold this to be the rule of life, “Too much of anything is bad.”


In everything satiety closely follows the greatest pleasures.


But thy words, with grace divine imbued, bring to their sweetness no satiety.


We grow tired of ourselves, much more of other people.


Pleasure and satiety live next door to each other.

J. Petit-Senn.

If I had a lover who wanted to hear from me every day, I would break with him.

Mme. de la Fayette.

A surfeit of the sweetest things the deepest loathing to the stomach brings.


Love dies by satiety, and forgetfulness inters it.

Du Cœur.

Everything that is in superabundance overflows from the full bosom.


The longest absence is less perilous to love than the terrible trials of incessant proximity.


The flower which we do not pluck is the only one which never loses its beauty or its fragrance.

W. R. Alger.

The ear is cloyed unto satiety with honeyed strains, that daily from the fount of Helicon flow murmuring.

William Herbert.

Attainment is followed by neglect, possession by disgust; and the malicious remark of the Greek epigrammatist on marriage may be applied to every other course of life, that its two days of happiness are the first and the last.


Some are cursed with the fullness of satiety; and how can they bear the ills of life when its very pleasures fatigue them?


Satiety comes of too frequent repetition; and he who will not give himself leisure to be thirsty can never find the true pleasure of drinking.


  • For ennui is a growth of English root,
  • Though nameless in our language:—we retort
  • The fact for words, and let the French translate
  • That awful yawn which sleep cannot abate.
  • Byron.

    The fruition of what is unlawful must be followed by remorse. The core sticks in the throat after the apple is eaten, and the sated appetite loathes the interdicted pleasure for which innocence was bartered.

    Jane Porter.

    Pleasure, when it is a man’s chief purpose, disappoints itself; and the constant application to it palls the faculty of enjoying it, though it leaves the sense of our inability for that we wish, with a disrelish of everything else.


    The most voluptuous and loose person breathing, were he tied to follow his hawks and his hounds, his dice and his courtships every day, would find it the greatest torment and calamity that could befall him; he would fly to the mines and galleys for his recreation.


  • Who riseth from a feast,
  • With that keen appetite that he sits down?
  • Where is the horse, that doth untread again
  • His tedious measures with the unabated fire,
  • That he did pave them first? all things that are,
  • Are with more spirit chased than enjoy’d.
  • Shakespeare.

    There is no sense of weariness like that which closes in a day of eager and unintermittent pursuit of pleasure. The apple is eaten, but “the core sticks in the throat.” Expectation has then given way to ennui, appetite to satiety.


  • But passion raves herself to rest, or flies;
  • And vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb
  • Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise:
  • Pleasure’s pall’d victim! life-abhorring gloom
  • Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain’s unresting doom.
  • Byron.

  • ’Twas strange—in youth all action and all life,
  • Burning for pleasure, not averse from strife;
  • Woman—the field—the ocean—all that gave
  • Promise of gladness, peril of a grave,
  • In turn he tried—he ransack’d all below,
  • And found his recompense in joy or woe,
  • No tame trite medium; for his feelings sought
  • In that intenseness an escape from thought:
  • The tempest of his heart in scorn had gazed
  • On that the feebler elements hath rais’d;
  • The rapture of his heart had look’d on high,
  • And ask’d if greater dwelt beyond the sky:
  • Chain’d to excess, the slave of such extreme,
  • How woke he from the wildness of that dream,
  • Alas! he told not—but he did awake
  • To curse the wither’d heart that would not break.
  • Byron.