If our elaborate and dominating bodies are given us to be denied at every turn, if our nature is always wrong and wicked, how ineffectual we are - like fishes not meant to swim

My body is merely the shell of my soul, But the flesh must be given its due, Like a pony that carries its rider back home, Like an old friend that's tried and been true

Outside every fat man there was an even fatter man trying to close in

Had double chins all the way down to his stomach

The tongue weighs next to nothing

Indigestion is - that inward fate which makes all Styx through one small liver flow

Muscles come and go flab lasts

His mouth is for export and his head has no entrance

The body is an instrument, the mind its function, the witness and reward of its operation

The body is the soul's poor house or home, whose ribs the laths are and whose flesh the loam